You Can’t Stop Me (8 page)

Choi said, “Chess club, right? Captain?”

Pall frowned. “Chess club, yes. Captain, yes, but not of chess club—wrestling team.”

Choi held up his palms in mock surrender.

Anderson said to Carmen, “Very nice thinkin’, Miz Garcia. But what d’yall find out?”

“As it happens, this particular leaf came from Settler itself—field corn KS1422, which is sold exclusively in Kansas and is, as I said, field corn
not
sweet corn, which is the type grown in that part of Florida.”

Choi said, “I know there’s sweet corn and popcorn, but what the hell is field corn?”

Everybody gave Choi a look.

“What?” he asked, injured. “Where I come from, corn’s in a can or frozen or frickin’ microwavable.”

Harrow held up a palm. “Billy, you’re doing exactly what I expect from you, and everybody on the forensics team.”

“I am?”

Harrow’s eyes traveled around the table. “I don’t expect any of you to know everything. God knows, I don’t. And if you don’t know, for God’s sake, say so. Screw your ego—we have a killer to catch.”

Laurene said, “J.C. is right—we’re all going to have holes in our game that the others of us’ll need to fill.”

Harrow asked, “How many people saw that corn leaf and saw nothing but a leaf, until Carmen came along and saw something different?”

Choi opened his hands and said to Carmen, “So? Enlighten the ignorant.”

“Field corn,” she said, “is grown for uses other than human consumption—animal feed, some plastics, biofuels such as ethanol, although it’s used as fuel in bio-gas plants in Europe, where it generates power.”

“Thanks,” Choi said. He said to the others, “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Carmen said, “Anyway, the point is, this is a type of field corn sold exclusively in Kansas.”

“The question that comes to mind is,” Anderson said, “how does a leaf from a corn plant grown in Kansas wind up in a cul-de-sac in Florida…a state where they only grow sweet corn?”

“That,” Harrow said, “is what we’re to find out.”

Pall said, “If the killer left that leaf behind—whether accidentally or on purpose—it’s a reasonable assumption that his area of operations extends beyond Florida.”

“Yes,” Laurene said. “It extends to the Midwest, where we have a similar crime, in another corn-growing state—Iowa.”

Choi said, “How do we know the Florida victim didn’t have an Uncle Silas from Kansas who walked that leaf in? Helluva leaf of faith, guys. Sure you want to make it?”

Carmen said, “I’ve already researched the families of the victims, and of the neighbors, and there’s no Kansas tie. Trust me. None.”

“Okay,” Harrow said, shaken a little by Choi’s valid undermining of their clue. “Anybody think this lead is too thin to be worth taking?”

No one did.
Thank God.

“All right, then,” Harrow said with a sigh. “Jenny?”

Jenny looked up quickly, a rabbit who’d heard the bark of a nearby dog.

“Use those computer skills to find me a link between my case and the Ferguson murders in Florida.”

She nodded and reached down for the briefcase that held her laptop.

“Also, check for similar crimes, particularly in the Midwest. The Florida case slipped through our fingers for a while, so maybe there are more.”

Jenny was already getting out her computer. She gave Harrow another quick nod and turned to her keyboard and monitor, focusing on her task.

“Laurene,” Harrow said, “as our chief crime scene analyst, I want you on a plane to Placida today. Find out what else they missed.”

Laurene nodded, asked, “When was this murder?”

“September,” Carmen said.

“Not what you’d call a fresh trail.”

“Billy,” Harrow said, ignoring that, “you and Carmen will go with Laurene—I want you two to interview the cops and any potential witnesses. Treat them right—they worked hard on the case. They’ll look at you as poachers, so play nice.”

Choi crossed his heart. “My best behavior, boss.”

“Now I can sleep better, hearing that. Oh, and see what you can get on the guns too.”

Choi nodded.

Pall asked, “What about us?”

“Michael, you and Chris do lab analysis of the evidence from both the Iowa and Florida cases. Make sure nothing else has been missed.”

Anderson’s expression was lazy, but his eyes were not. “Where
is
the evidence?”

“In your lab.”

“We got a
lab
?”

“Sure.”

“You’re not talkin’ about a retriever are you?”

“No, Chris. A fully pimped-out crime lab.”

“Here at this TV studio?”

Harrow shook his head. “Outside.”

The forensics team, the camera crew, and Carmen and her little army all followed Harrow out, paraded down the hall and through double doors into the bright LA morning sunshine. The smog had rolled back to cast a brighter light for the occasion.

Parked before them were a semi-trailer rig and two tour buses, each vehicle bearing
Crime Seen!, Killer TV,
and UBC logos.

“Am I seeing things?” Pall asked, staring wide-eyed, hands on hips, tie flapping a little in the breeze, seeming very Clark Kent to Harrow. Mini Clark Kent….

“Not a mirage, Michael,” Harrow said to the DNA expert, and led the team to the semi-trailer first. “And there’ll be a makeup/wardrobe motor home, and a satellite uplink truck joining the wagon train, when we head out.”

Though they stood on the driver’s side of the trailer, their attention was on the drone of a motor, just out of sight.

“The motors you hear,” Harrow said, “are the air conditioner and refrigeration unit for the crime lab that takes up the trailer’s front three-quarters.”

The whole team seemed dumbfounded, and were exchanging colorful reactions, the TV crew catching it all.

Toward the front of the trailer, three metal stairs hung down. Harrow climbed them, pulled open the door, and led the team inside the white-walled world, neat work stations set up on either side: a fingerprint hood, a drying closet, a gas chromatograph-mass spectrometer, an AFIS, NIBIN, CODIS station, and a water tank to catch bullets fired for testing also lined the walls. Three long tables ran down the middle, one a regular work table, another a backlit table with bulbs under the surface, a third holding a Kodak MP3 evidence camera in its stand.

The team looked around in wonder. Most came from state crime labs that weren’t nearly this up to date.

Anderson asked, “Who the heck’s footin’ the bill for all this?”

“UBC and our sponsors,” Harrow said. “And much of the equipment here was provided by the manufacturers in exchange for a mention in the end credits.

Choi said, “The way they squeeze the credits down these days? What good’s that kind of unreadable plug do them?”

Carmen said, “We provide the companies with footage of you ‘stars’ using the equipment, and it becomes part of their promo package when they go out to state and local crime labs around the country, and the world.”

Shaking his head, Pall said, “Weird way to stop a killer.”

“That’s entertainment,” Laurene said. She swivelled to lock eyes with Harrow. “Which brings us to something else, J.C.”

Harrow felt the camera move in on him as he said, “What?”

Ignoring Hathaway and his video eye, Laurene asked, “How long is this season supposed to last again?”

“Twenty-two weeks,” Harrow reminded her.

“And what happens if we haven’t found the guy?”

Harrow didn’t duck her gaze. “We keep looking.”

“Can we be cancelled?”

“Any TV show can be cancelled. But we’ve got at least twenty-two weeks, guaranteed, and even if we aren’t finished then, we should be able to keep going. As long as, well, we’ve been…”

“Entertaining?”

“I was going to say ‘make compelling viewing.’ I believe we’ll be allowed to keep up the search—too much of an embarrassment to the network not to. On the other hand, I don’t figure we’ll need more time than we’ve been given.”

“Cool,” Choi said. “But what happens if we nail our guy in, oh, two weeks?”

After all these years of looking for his family’s killer, and now finally having one clue that might be a genuine lead, Harrow had never contemplated the possibility that the case might now come down quickly.

“That would be great,” he said. “Sooner the better.”

Laurene asked, “Oh? And how’s the network going to feel about that?”

“Well, they’d be thrilled, I’d think.”

“Really? They promote something as a season-long serial only to have it wind up in two weeks? Wouldn’t that cut into their profits?”

Harrow finally saw where Laurene was headed, and the truth was, he didn’t know the answer. “Maury, turn off the camera.”

Hathaway’s head peeked around the edge of the camera. “J.C., this is good stuff.”

“You know the rules, Maury. When I say ‘cut,’ you cut. I won’t abuse the privilege. Shut it down and kill the sound too.”

Hathaway did as he was told. So did Hughes.

Choi asked, “You want them out while we talk?”

“No,” Harrow said. “Anyway, it’s Maury I want to talk to.”

“Me?” Hathaway asked, setting the camera on a nearby table. “What did I do?”

“Nothing. I just want an expert opinion.”

“I’m no expert,” the heavyset cameraman insisted. “I never saw
CSI
in my life. I don’t even watch television. I
make
it.”

That got chuckles all around, but uneasiness was in the air.

“Maury, do you think the network would ask us to withhold evidence, to…parcel it out, time its release, for dramatic effect? Just to keep the show going?”

Hathaway’s eyes widened, and his mouth dropped—not a typical reaction from a seasoned vet like him. “Hell, I never thought of that.”

“Me neither,” Harrow admitted. “And what’s more, I haven’t been here long enough to know the answer. Maury, you’ve been at UBC for ten years. You know everything and everyone—what do you think?”

The cameraman took a long silent moment, glanced at Hughes, who seemed similarly flummoxed. Finally, he said, “Nicole never would pull anything like that. Not that she’s honest, but I don’t think she’s got the power or the cojones to go that far.”

The team looked relieved, if somewhat skeptical.

Harrow asked, “What about Byrnes?”

“Him I’m not so sure,” Hathaway said. “I mean, the guy is all about the bottom line. But his reputation—and my experience with him? He’s honest, as far as it goes.”

“What does that mean, Maury?”

“It means—it’s Hollywood.”

This did not ease Harrow’s concerns.

Laurene asked, “So, if we have misgivings about the networks and its priorities—what’s the impact on how we proceed?”

“We handle all the evidence ourselves,” Harrow said, “or at private labs we trust, like Chris’s employer, Shaw and Associates.”

Choi was frowning, his expression close to pissed off. “Would these UBC SOB’s tamper with evidence?”

Harrow shook his head. “I don’t believe they would, Billy. But it will be better if we can keep the situation from arising. I believe we can address any attempt to have us hold back evidence—”

“Like for sweeps week?” Choi said, only half kidding.

“Like for sweeps week,” Harrow said. “We can head that off by getting the lawyers involved. Obstruction of justice trumps ratings, every time.”

Laurene seemed satisfied with Harrow’s take on the network situation. “Okay,” she said. “Then I have another question, J.C.”

“I’m not surprised,” Harrow said patiently.

“If…
when
…we catch this killer—who has jurisdiction?”

“We’ll see about that when we know more,” Harrow said. “Let’s catch the bastard first, then we’ll worry about who gets to try him. Certainly we’ll be cooperating with state and local, and sharing any glory.”

Shaking his head, Pall said, “Nobody’s ever attempted anything like this before, J.C. But you know as well as any of us…if you were this asshole’s lawyer? You would say you couldn’t get a fair trial anywhere in the United States.”

All eyes were on Harrow.

Pall went on: “A top-rated TV show used its hunt for him as a ratings boost? Think there’ll be twelve licensed drivers anywhere in the country that won’t be prejudiced against this guy once we do catch him?”

Harrow put up his hands in surrender. “I’m the first to admit I haven’t thought of everything involved here. Maybe I got blinded by finally seeing a pinpoint of light, after years of darkness.”

And as far as the network and Dennis Byrnes were concerned, Harrow had known when he signed on that he was inking a deal with the devil. Now, he just hoped he wouldn’t get tripped up by the fine print.

“First, let’s find the guy,” he told them. “Let’s stop him and expose him, and trust that matters like jurisdiction and fair trials don’t trip us up.”

Laurene said, “These are dark waters, J.C. Choppy too.”

“I know. But I couldn’t ask for a better crew to help make the voyage.”

Choi grunted a laugh. “Good thing I know how to swim.”

Harrow said, “Just so you don’t jump overboard on me, Billy…. Maury, turn the camera back on, and let’s get down to work.”

The motel room was dark, the flimsy, filmy curtains pulled tight against the fading afternoon sun as the Messenger kicked back on the bed, thin pillows piled behind his head as he watched the national news on UBC.

Outside, what passed for rush hour in Socorro, New Mexico, was under way, which meant maybe ten cars on the street, not five. Still, with only nine thousand souls, Socorro was still way bigger than his own hometown.

Made him wonder—if the rights of people could be so blatantly trampled on in a little town like his, with no repercussions, how could people’s rights ever be protected in a town twenty-five times the size? Or in a really big city, like New York or Chicago? Possibilities for corruption there were mind-boggling.

That thought only served to reinforce why his work was so important—why he needed to keep leaving messages around the country, until someone was smart and capable enough to understand their importance.

Sad that he’d had to go the way he had, but he needed help, and the normal routes for gaining assistance had paid him no heed. The messages he was delivering seemed the only reasonable way to recruit the help he so desperately required.

On the tube-television screen, Carlos Moreno was doing a satellite interview with J.C. Harrow, host of
Crime Seen!

“Has anything like this ever been attempted, J.C.?”

Outdoors in what seemed to be Southern countryside, Harrow—in a corny Robert Stack-style trenchcoat—said, “No, Carlos, this is a first. We’ve assembled some of the best forensics talent in the nation, and tonight we’ll share some of the exciting work we’ve been doing, while
Crime Seen!
has been away.”

The Messenger farted with his lips over the rest of the interview, and laughed out loud at how uneasy stately anchor Jackson Blair seemed, when he was forced to close the broadcast with a blatant plug: “Be sure to stay with UBC tonight for the season premiere of
Crime Seen!
with J.C. Harrow and his crack criminalists, as they close in on the murderer of the host’s family, nearly seven years ago.”

If Harrow and his team of “crack criminalists” were “closing in on the killer,” it was news to the Messenger, who had seen no sign of them.

No one had come to his hometown, no one had approached him on his travels to deliver his messages, and no one was anywhere near him now, unless they were being good and goddamn secretive about it. As if to prove the point, he got off the bed, walked to the window, and peeked between the thin curtains.

He sure as hell didn’t see Harrow out there, or any “crack criminalists,” or even criminalists on crack, much less any of those dopey-looking buses and trucks that had been featured all summer in those ridiculous commercials promoting the show like it was the second goddamn coming.

What he did see was fading sun, a sky turning purple, and headlights starting to snap on in passing cars as darkness descended on Socorro like a soothing blanket. Any sense of comfort in this community, however, was a false one; this was a night that would wake this town up forever.

Though thus far no one seemed to be getting his messages—well, they received them, but they didn’t
get
them—he still held out hope. He would continue his quest until someone acknowledged his messages and did something to right the wrong.

He’d thought Harrow might be that man. But as the summer passed with nothing but ludicrous publicity for the show’s
Killer TV
segment, it seemed more and more likely that Harrow couldn’t make out the messages either. The former sheriff might be sincere in trying to find the Messenger, but was clearly being used by the television network in a cheap, sleazy, distasteful stunt for money and ratings.

Still, Harrow had come the closest of anyone, so far at least, and the Messenger realized that a personalized refresher might be just what was needed to jump-start the ex-sheriff, and nudge him in the right direction. He wondered if Harrow might have other family, to help make that point—brothers, sisters, father, mother…?

There had to be some appropriate target on the map that would send a more pointed message to the UBC superstar. Research, investigation, would be needed, though that would have to wait….

First, he had already devised a message for delivery here in New Mexico.

He returned to the bed and picked up the copy of
TV Guide
—with Harrow and his team’s picture on it—that had been tented over the .357 Magnum. The six-shot Smith and Wesson pistol had been utilized twice before, sending previous messages.

Each message delivered had become an indelible memory, not memories he cherished at all, rather burdens to bear. One such memory bubbled up as he watched another in the seemingly endless parade of
Crime Seen!
spots that rolled across the small faded screen.

August, six years ago. A house, bigger than his own, sat on a hill in Iowa, off Highway 30, back in the sticks between Ames and Nevada, the owner a retired Story County sheriff, living there with his wife and son. The home had belonged to J.C. Harrow, the man he had made a star—devil his due, Harrow had saved the President’s life in a crazy coincidence that had, weirdly, served both the Messenger and his future nemesis.

Harrow’s fame had been an unseen outcome of that particular message. You couldn’t always know the ways in which your actions might impact the world. Making presidential hero Harrow a major celebrity, by having his family murdered the same day, had been one such instance.

As he checked the load in his revolver, and his backup in his speed-loader, he frowned, mildly surprised that—despite how many messages he’d delivered—each one remained distinct in his mind.

He took no pleasure in reliving these events, but he owed it to those who conveyed his messages for him not to forget their sacrifice. Without them, he would be nothing; without them, no point could be made.

The key, he knew, was that each delivery was cataloged in his mind by the gun he’d used. That was why, at the beginning, he had not needed to take souvenirs to help him remember and keep straight the calls he made. He was not, after all, some FedEx man with a computer to keep track.

But with each specific gun, he could look at it and remember each message just as he had delivered it, despite a certain sameness that had quickly crept in. That house in Iowa wasn’t so much different from the one he would visit tonight in New Mexico.

Both were two-story family homes, away from town, the Iowa one on a hill, this one down in a valley. The houses, except for their age (Iowa being older), were very similar, as were the families inside. Though retired Sheriff Harrow had only the one child, this family had two. And like Harrow, this man—George Reid—was a civil servant, the lead accountant for Socorro County.

And the Messenger knew all too well how much trouble accountants could cause.

Even now, the .357 pressing against his side as he drove to deliver the Socorro message, he could feel the similarities between the two messages weaving within him, a reflection on a past delivery and a briefing for the upcoming one.

In Iowa, he parked one road north of his target, and left the nondescript Chevy sitting by the side of the road as he took off cross-country, making his way through the neighbor’s cornfield that stood between him and the back of Harrow’s house.

In New Mexico, he killed the headlights and turned into the Reids’ long driveway, coasted out of view from the road, killed the engine, climbed out of the car.

The Iowa breeze was warm, the sun bright, as the Messenger made his way through corn taller than him, careful to guard his face and hands from the slash of stalks, the air smelling like a summer Sunday from back when life was good.

Tonight the breeze in the Rio Grande Valley was cool, blowing gently from the Cibola National Forest to the west, hinting of a late-season forest fire. Darkness had settled in, but a bright moon and a million stars made it easy to navigate the gravel drive.

When he got to the edge of the cornfield, he’d peeked out at the back of the house—shut up tight, air conditioner humming. No other sounds, movement. He expected a barking dog, a passing car, something, anything; but nothing—nothing but the steady beat of his own heart.

The drive here was lined with Mexican pinyon trees, providing plenty of cover as he made his way. The night was a calming cloak, the lights of the house visible through the trees.

He’d moved around the Harrow house to the east, using the cornfield for cover till he was behind the garage, where he could step out, without anyone seeing him.

Here, the garage was attached to the house, one door open on the empty space of George Reid’s SUV, the other door closed, the wife’s car obviously within as usual.

He’d felt the sweat beading his brow and trickling down his back, but it was just the August heat, not nerves. He was just a postman on his rounds, delivering bad news. Internally, he was so cool, it was as if he already stood within the air-conditioned walls of Harrow’s house.

On this New Mexican night, he was so experienced at his mission that he didn’t even feel warm, despite wearing black jeans, a long-sleeved black T-shirt, and black Reeboks. Even the stocking cap didn’t seem to generate any heat on his forehead. He was far cooler than he’d been in Iowa, and dressed differently.

At Harrow’s, he’d straightened his narrow black tie, and glanced again toward the house, where he saw no movement through curtained windows. He carried a pair of
Watchtower
pamphlets and wore the plain dark suit suitable to a Jehovah’s Witness. This, he felt, was a perfect disguise. Even if he knocked on the wrong door, no one ever remembered the earnest anonymous face of a Witness thrusting the
Watchtower
at them; and very seldom was anyone rude enough to slam the door in a religious face. Usually he could easily get in the door, selling one message before switching to his real one.

This message he would deliver without guile. He had scouted this house, just as he had all the others, and knew there was a weakness here that had not come up at the Harrow home, which was why he’d needed the subterfuge there.

He had eyed the Harrow house as he moved down a fence line beyond the garage until he was halfway down the drive. Then he strode back up the driveway as if coming from the road. Now, he wanted them to see his approach, the Jehovah’s Witness coming to the house to spread The Word.

This time, he entered the open garage and walked up to the door that led into the house, a mudroom just beyond, kitchen, living room. Basement was probably empty and, if he hadn’t completed delivery of the message by the time he’d reached the living room, he would most likely find the children in their respective bedrooms, up a short flight of stairs.

At the Harrow house, he’d knocked on the door and been met by Harrow’s pretty brunette wife in her Iowa State T-shirt, her smile wide, her lips the same color red as the shirt.

When he gave her the fictional name and shoved the
Watchtower
at her, she looked down, and that was her last mistake. When he pushed her inside, she’d been too startled even to scream, although her smile did disappear.

“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded.

“Delivering a message.”

“What?”

The gun emerged from his jacket pocket of its own volition and answered her question, tearing through her blouse and knocking the air from her, like a shove. Even over the explosion, he heard her make the
whooshing
sound, then he shot her a second time, which dropped her onto her back. Dead.

He liked that she hadn’t suffered.

Then the high school kid had appeared, from over left, having come the long way around from the kitchen, and tried to get the drop on the Messenger, a butcher knife raised menacingly.

The young man lost his chance, though, when he paused to whimper at the sight of his late mother on the floor, and never saw the first slug that the gun sent him, knocking him backward a step. He barely looked up before the gun issued a second shot that hit him in the chest, and raised a pink, puffy mist as if his soul were leaving his body.

Testing the knob of the garage door, he could only hope tonight’s message would be as easy to deliver.

The door whispered open, and he stepped into the dark, vacant mudroom. Bleach tickled his nostrils as he crept through to the kitchen door, edged with light; he paused to listen before he opened it. On the other side, he could hear the sound of water running, and the clatter of dishes. Someone washing up after dinner.

The knob twisted slowly in his hand, each second bringing him closer to his delivery, yet feeling no urge to rush. Thinking back to when he’d watched sports on TV, a lifetime ago, he recalled the athletes who spoke of not trying to do too much—about letting the game come to them. This was like that—the game would come to him.

Then it really did, the knob slipping from his grasp as someone opened the door.

Framed in angelic light, the twelve-year-old boy was a five-foot replica of his blond father. His blue eyes widened with shock as he saw the Messenger.

Saw the Messenger and the barrel of the revolver whose snout bore a black hole big enough to swallow the boy up—and it did. The shot hit the child in the chest, knocking him back slightly before he slumped to the floor. His mother, still at the sink, up to her elbows in dishwater, spun when she heard the report, flicking water and suds.

Agape, she seemed to scream but either it was silent or inaudible over the second shot, which struck her in the sternum and shook her as if she were the child, a naughty child, and she slid down the counter as if carried by overflow from the sink.

One more shot to each party as he crossed the room ended any doubt about whether their wounds were fatal, and he was on to the family room. He found the stunned daughter sitting on the carpet, staring blankly at the wall that separated her from the kitchen as if she had seen through it and understood why her mother and brother weren’t coming in. On a large flat-screen TV against the far wall, a happy cartoon child with pastel hair was dancing and singing.