Dire Means (30 page)

He saw two other yellow signs in car windows before he reached his apartment. Statistically, three signs may be insignificant in a city the size of Santa Monica, but if Pop was correct, the signs and other symbols of affection for the homeless would multiply. People would scramble to advertise their affiliation with the city’s new social paradigm—a city with a sudden disproportionate number of homeless sympathizers and advocates. As long as Pop could fuel his engine of fear, Santa Monica would have a robust volunteer army to fight homelessness—all while the entire world watched.

Mark usually came to decisions with ease, but since visiting the Trail Bladers’ Nest his brain couldn’t wrestle down his best move. He believed that if he went to the police, Pop would indeed kill the captive victims before the Trail Bladers’ Nest could be located.

Even if they did find it, Mark had no confidence that law enforcement could rescue the abductees—not after seeing firsthand how impenetrable the bunker was. There was no way SWAT could get a clean shot at anyone in the Nest, nor could they infiltrate it. There was no door to kick down, no stairway to descend, not even a window for a sharpshooter’s reticle.

Pop had assured Mark that he would be watching his every move. After having seen the technology used by the Trail Bladers, he was sure Pop had placed GPS tracking on his car, and any object in his apartment could be a microphone—or video camera for Pop’s surveillance.

Mark also realized that the cameras he had seen in the hallways of the bunker must certainly record every second of every day. If he went to the police, Pop would probably implicate him in the abductions.

When he entered his apartment, Mark let his computer bag drop to the floor and he paused to look around. The digs that awaited him at the Trail Bladers bunker were spectacular and offered more luxury than Mark had ever experienced. But Pop’s offer was ruined by the unthinkable requirement that Mark tolerate the abduction and murder of people the Trail Bladers used as fodder for their cause.

He opened his computer bag. He had left it in the Trail Bladers truck during his time at the Nest and assumed it was now hacked and bugged.

He turned on the television and sat on the sofa. Special reports had become a daily occurrence, interrupting regular programming to repeat updates of information presented an hour earlier. Channels scrambled to be the first with any developments. Mark saw the Mendalsen and Chargon tapes playing again. He changed the channel. The private screening with the filmmaker had been more than enough.

A reporter announced that a press conference would be held at City Hall the next day at 10:00 a.m. The family of the latest victim would make a statement followed by new information from police. Mark had a new interest in finding out exactly how much information the police had gathered. He had more information than anyone outside the Nest and would know if the police were close to solving the murders.

That night Mark went to Bonfiglio for dinner. Henry greeted him while a light dinner crowd watched the TV. A local channel showed non-stop commercial-free coverage of the missing-persons investigations, and a split screen looped the ubiquitous video footage of Mendalsen and Chargon assaults on someone who held a camera—assumed now to be the killer. The café was quiet as patrons gazed at the TV, mesmerized by the footage. When the news changed to an obligatory weather report, several people sat back and their discussion and speculation began anew.

“I don’t think we’ve ever seen a homeless person doing any killing like this,” Althea said. She dabbed a napkin to her lips after tasting a new batch of lentil soup.

A chunky bald man added, “I went down to the shelter and fed those people last Thanksgiving. The killer don’t want me. Besides, I never hit one of ‘em.”

“Everybody and their brother serves at a shelter on a holiday,” Henry answered, lifting salt and pepper shakers to wipe the counter under them. “Hell, I give food away on holidays. That’s no safety in this situation the way I see it. You better hope you didn’t get filmed on a day you were in a bad mood—that’s all I have to say.”

Several patrons nodded.

§

When Mark's alarm clock sounded at 6:00 a.m., his eyes had already been open for over an hour. He reached out from under his covers and swatted the clock’s off button without looking at it and continued staring at the ceiling. He had hoped that sleep would help him come to a clear decision about the best way to handle Pop and his offer. It had not.

He thought of Pop’s promise to execute the trapped fodder, littering the streets with their bodies. Pop had taken special care to make sure Mark understood the futility of going to law enforcement.

The only way to save the missing people would be to join Pop’s mission and somehow conduct a rescue from the inside.

Mark felt ashamed that Pop’s plan to end homelessness intrigued him. He believed that killing was always unnecessary and always wrong. He had extended that philosophy to animals, too, by becoming a vegetarian.

He threw off the covers and on the way to the bathroom grumbled, “This sucks.”

The 10:00 a.m. news conference was to be held outside the Santa Monica police station, only a ten minute drive from his home, so he decided to attend in person.

When he arrived, a large crowd had descended on a wide lawn and spilled over onto the surrounding sidewalks. Media vans and trucks dominated the adjacent parking lot with their satellite dishes aimed at various parts of a clear blue sky. Spectators who managed to get their cars into the lot sat on the hoods or in truck beds to see the press table.

Every person Mark passed had a paranoid tension etched in their expression.

Mark—to his knowledge—was the only non-Trail Blader who could identify the culprit in the abductions. As he made his way through the crowd, he felt an unfair calmness. Most of the people standing around him had probably seen Mark rescue the very man who now terrorized them. Mark had nothing to fear. This serial killer was his fan and probably watching him this very moment. That thought was eerie to Mark.

He could easily enter the police station less than a couple hundred feet away, and tell what he knew before anyone could stop him—even if Pop had a henchman nearby. But if he did, Mark believed that Pop would keep his promise to kill the captured fodder in a matter of minutes, and then surely come after him. After his experience at the Trail Blader Nest, it was hard to imagine Pop or any Trail Blader treating him with anything but the utmost deference. Even so, getting on Pop’s bad side was obviously suicidal.

On the other hand, if he said nothing and joined Pop’s mission, could he buy enough time to work a rescue plan from inside the Nest?

As he neared the press table, he saw a couple with their two children taking seats behind it. The press began shooting photos, the rapid clicks sounded like a crackling fire. Two police officers sat down beside the family. The man put his arm around his wife and offered her a tissue. She took it and balled it up in her hand without using it. She was angry and she let her face be wet.

An officer stood to take the microphone. The buzz of conversation muted for the announcement. It reminded Mark of his own press conference and he was relieved that he didn’t have to speak at this one. He hadn’t been recognized by anyone in the crowd—perhaps rescuing Pop was fading from public memory. He welcomed the anonymity. He remembered Pop’s warning—that he would be thrust into a media spotlight again when homeless sympathizers became “persons of interest.”

The officer tapped the mic with his finger. “Good afternoon,” he said. “I’ll keep this brief. Due to the sensitivity of our ongoing investigation, we won’t be entertaining any questions today.”

At each of the prior press conferences, the reward amount was announced. This time there was no mention of the reward.

“As has been reported, the body of another missing person has been found. We will release more details on this at a later time. We are in the process of interviewing a great number of our homeless citizens. We hope to find answers that will help us to end these tragedies.”

Mark scanned the crowd again. On any given day, hundreds of homeless people walked the downtown streets and sidewalks of Santa Monica, clustering on the lawn of City Hall. Volunteer organizations offered assistance at that location: serving free hot food, giving away soap, shampoo, toothpaste, deodorant and sometimes, clothing. Today there were no homeless people in sight.

A reporter shouted, “Do you have a reward update?”

The officer held up a finger. “We’re not here to discuss the reward at this time. We have decided, because of the unique nature of these crimes, to use an unusual measure in our attempt to end them. We now have a very special message.” The officer cleared his throat and read from a 3 X 5 card. “We have seen your movies. Thank you for them. We appreciate the footage you have allowed us to view.” He didn’t smile or look up at the camera as he read. Reporters glanced at one another, surprised at the comments spoken directly to the killer. The officer continued, “We are studying your movies to understand your message and what you would like from us.” When he raised his head, a frenzy of camera clicks crackled. “We ask that you contact us so we can fix the problem.” He folded the card and returned it to his pocket.

A reporter shouted, “Are you any closer to catching this killer?”

Another said, “How do you know he’s watching?”

“No questions,” the officer said, holding his hands up. “We have a brief statement from the family of the most recent missing person.”

The woman sitting at the table, comforted by her husband’s arm, shook her head. Their faces showed fresh agony. The woman still clutched the tissue. Cameras turned to her.

“I can’t,” she sobbed into her husband’s chest. He gently pulled her to him and she buried her face in his chest.

He patted her back and addressed the reporters. “Our daughter Margorie is a wonderful person…” His voice went down to a whisper. “Margorie is our only daughter and wouldn’t hurt a flea. I can’t see Margorie doing anything to a homeless person like what we’ve seen on your movies. So I’m asking you…” He bowed his head to catch his voice. “I’m asking you to please let Margorie go.”

Mark had seen enough television to recognize the familiar tactic of repeating the victim’s name to make her more human to the perpetrator. Obviously the police or a profiler had coached the couple before the press conference. Mark also knew that any attempt to draw sympathy from Pop would fail. Pop had a passion for the homeless and abhorrence for people who mistreated them. An exterminator would sooner sympathize with termites.

The officer returned to the microphone and said, “The mayor would like to make a statement.”

The mayor, looking dapper in a blue sports jacket and sunglasses, adjusted the microphone down and said, “If you want to give us any information so we can put an end to the suffering in our city, please contact us at 1-877-MISSING. We need to hear from you.”

The mayor seemed to be giving the phone number to the killer rather than the public.

Everyone at the table stood and walked away, climbing the steps that led back to the City Hall building. The press hollered out questions, not satisfied with the minuscule amount of information presented. The crowd began to disperse and Mark began his walk to his car. He saw a pair of police officers moving in the same direction. He was tempted to call out to them and give them the lead of their careers. But what could he say?
Hey, I know who the killer is. I toured his facility but I have no idea where it is—but there is a mural of me on the wall and probably footage of me interacting with the perpetrator—but I’m not involved.
At the street, he watched the police officers get into their cruiser and drive away.

At home he felt ashamed for not having reported what he knew. He took the phone Morana had given him and tossed it onto his kitchen counter. He was tempted to call. She said he would know when to use the phone. He had the urge, but it wasn’t strong enough yet. He needed more time for an effective plan.

He fell onto his sofa, mentally drained. He turned on the television and watched the morning press conference again while he struggled to develop a plan. The officer who stood at the microphones and read the statement to the killer sounded stiffer and more rehearsed on television than he had in person. Mark was certain Pop had seen it. He imagined Pop sitting, reclined in his office chair, watching the press conference on his fancy movie screen—perhaps with Morana and Teddy present. Mark wondered what sort of conversation they’d have about the new tactic to open communication.

Sleep didn’t come easily that night, and Mark knew he wouldn’t have a good night’s rest until he decided whether to join Pop, report Pop or yield to an urge to flee the country.

§

The next morning, Mark prepared to head out for his service calls. On his nightstand sat his car keys, wallet, cell phone, and the extra gray phone Morana had given him. He considered leaving the Trail Blader phone there because he hated having to carry things in his pocket. Morana’s instructions were to keep the phone with him, but he didn’t see how he could need it before he returned home.

He picked it up, flipped it open, and then closed it before sliding it into his pocket. He would take the phone even though it didn’t give him the sense of security that Morana had implied it would. It actually made him feel more like an accessory to Pop’s crime spree. He packed his computer bag and went to Bonfiglio for breakfast. The breakfast counter had the usual mix of regulars. Henry served Mark an onion bagel, cream cheese, and coffee without Mark having to order.