The Prophet Motive (3 page)

Flipping through his notepad, Eddie said, “Let’s see . . . Tiburon made the call at nine AM. Talked to an administrator, who had no record the van was missing, but promised to investigate the matter. Two hours later, the farm’s legal counsel calls back, saying the vehicle had been missing for about ten days, and that a certain long-term resident of the farm, named Daryl Finck, had been missing for the same length of time. They had not reported the van as stolen because they were hoping that Daryl had simply borrowed it without authorization for some personal reason and would return shortly, but now they believe he’s left the farm for good, and view the vehicle as stolen.”

“You check into this ‘Finck’ fellow?” Switzer said.

“According to his DL,” John said, “he’s a perfect match with one of the corpse snatchers. Six foot six-inch redhead. Twenty-eight years old.”

“Any priors?”

“Nope.”

Switzer drummed his desktop with four stubby fingers as he stared through the plate glass window separating his office from the open floor of the detective bureau. “Is it possible the cult had nothing to do with these killings? That whatever happened was between Daryl and Esperanza? Some strange passion play?”

“Possible,” John said. “But not likely.”

“Why not?”

“Maybe you’ve heard—same as, uh, I’ve heard—that cult leaders are like dictators among their own people?”

“Yeah, so?”

“So here’s what I think happened.”
What I know happened
. “The cult leader arranged Esperanza’s death somehow—either convinced her to kill herself, or terrorized the poor girl into doing it—and ordered Esperanza’s body recovered, for some twisted reason that’ll disgust even us.”

“Okay. I’ll buy that for now.”

“Once the phone call came in from Tiburon, the cult leader knew his outfit was about to become the focus of our homicide investigation. He had to assume that, before his next shave, we’d be searching the farm for the two perps. How hard would it be, after all, to find a six foot six-inch redhead?”

“Not hard,” Switzer said. “The other one, the accomplice, would be hard. No distinguishing features. Too everyman.”

“Right,” John said. “So to deflect attention from himself, the cult leader gives up one of his followers. He gives up Daryl Finck. He takes two hours to cook up this story about Daryl and the van disappearing, then he has his legal counsel call back Tiburon PD and dish it out. If the cops swallow it, no search warrant, no more focus on him or the cult.”

“But why hand us a perp?” Switzer said. “When we find Daryl Finck, he may not fall on his sword, even for the cult leader.”

“That’s an easy one,” John said. “The cult leader’s betting he can hide Daryl, and it’s a fairly good bet too.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“For one thing, he could off Daryl himself. Or he could have another one of his followers do it. But he doesn’t have to go to that extreme.” John gave Eddie a glance. “Tell the captain what Doctor Michaelsen told us.”

“Doctor Michaelsen?” Switzer said. “I think I know her. Police psychologist?”

“Right,” Eddie said, “and our resident cult expert too, you might say. She says cults often have safe houses, where they hide their members from relatives trying to lure them out of the cult, or maybe just trying to reestablish personal contact. She says the cult members can be hidden away for months at a time—or even years. And these safe houses are often out of state. On the other side of the country. Or even overseas.”

“I see your point,” Switzer said.

“And here’s the major implication.” John leaned forward in his worn-out naugahyde chair. “If the cult told Tiburon PD the truth, then we won’t find Daryl Finck by searching that farm, and if they lied we won’t find him there either.”

Eddie grunted in accord. “Hard to argue with that.”

“At this point,” Switzer said after some more desktop drumming, “I don’t know whether the cult leader is involved or not, but I do know that two people are dead and a corpse has been stolen, and to even begin to find out who’s responsible, we’ll have to conduct an undercover operation inside that cult.”

John blew out all the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Absolutely.”

“Just what I was thinking,” Eddie said.

Switzer said, “Arrange a meeting with Doctor Michaelsen ASAP. We could use her help infiltrating that cult.”

“Will do,” John said. His headache had dissolved as inconspicuously as fog. The case excited him, which hadn’t happened in months. Partly, it was the bizarre circumstances. Partly, it was personal.

“Now,” Switzer said, “what do we know about the cult leader?”

John dipped into his briefcase for a thin bound volume and tossed it across the desk. “Here’s the FBI report on Earthbound. Not much info, really, but get this. The cult leader is known as ‘The Wizard.’ Claims to have psychic powers. Talks to animals.”

“Just wonderful,” Captain Switzer said. “We’re up against a demented Doctor Dolittle.”

Marilyn Michaelsen noticed that the long, black conference table she’d been sitting at was shaped much like a coffin. A macabre joke, she suspected, this being the Homicide unit. But for her the hexagonal shape did not amuse. It only fed her anxieties about the case. Cops just didn’t get it when it came to cults, often with tragic results. Poison gas in a Tokyo subway. Burning babies in Texas . . .

“The risk for the undercover cop will be extreme,” she said. “A vast range of psychological and emotional parameters will be disturbed, and so, very quickly, the cult might truly convert our cop to its beliefs. In that case, he or she would abandon—or even betray—the operation, and join the cult as a legitimate member.”

“You can’t be serious,” Captain Switzer said from his seat where the coffin head would be.

“I am completely serious.”

Across the table, Inspector Eddie Bourne—fine-looking man, fine suit—frowned at what he’d been hearing. “I don’t understand. I thought the only people who join cults are mentally imbalanced.”

His partner, John Richetti, whose blue blazer might’ve fit him perfectly twenty pounds earlier, scowled. “That’s bullshit.” He turned to Marilyn. “Ain’t that right, Doc?”

She nodded, surprised a cop would know even that much about cults. “That’s just a popular fallacy. No more than five percent of those who join cults have a prior record of major psychological difficulties.”

Captain Switzer met her eyes. “I’m getting the sense you don’t want me pulling some rookie off traffic duty to do the undercover work.”

“Certainly not. We’ll need an operative with significant undercover experience. Someone talented. Who’s not afraid of hazardous duty. Not afraid to witness—or, dare I say, even commit—some of the most offensive, immoral, and anti-social acts imaginable. I can’t say with any exactitude just how strange or sick life will prove to be inside Earthbound—not without more information—but I
can
tell you there won’t be any of the normal social constraints on behavior. There won’t be any limits at all, other than the imagination of one man. The man calling himself ‘The Wizard.’ ”

Captain Switzer gave a nod, followed by a stealthy peek at her chest. “I’ll contact Vice. Narcotics. See who’s available.”

“I’ll do it,” John said. “I’ll go in.”

Eddie Bourne’s head whipped in the direction of his partner’s. “You? Do the infiltration, you mean?”

Captain Switzer said, “No, no, John. Can’t have it. I remember you worked undercover quite a bit for Narcotics prior to joining Homicide, but I can’t afford to lose a detective for what might prove to be weeks on end.”

“Let me do this,” John said.

The two men locked eyes. Some kind of rapid, fluent, non-verbal messaging passed between them, it seemed to Marilyn, a calculation or cashing in of IOUs, perhaps, and then the captain was saying to her: “It’ll be John.” To Eddie, he said, “You’ll stay here and handle the caseload while he’s gone. Wish I could get you some help, but—”

“Not so fast,” she said. “I’ll need to take a look at Inspector Richetti’s latest fitness-for-duty evaluation. I’ll also want to run some tests on him. We need to be sure there’s nothing in his psychological profile that indicates a problem.”

“Doctor,” Captain Switzer said, “I’ve known John Richetti for roughly fifteen years, and while he may have more than his share of personal problems, you can take it from me, he’ll do.”

“Oh, stop,” John growled at his captain. “You’re too kind.”

“With all due respect,” she said, notepads slapping shut around her, pens being stowed away, “it’s my job to determine—”

“Tomorrow morning, John,” Captain Switzer said, “you’ll begin a one-day training session with Doctor Michaelsen on how to resist cult mind control techniques.”

“One day!” Marilyn said. “That’s not enough time!”

“Do the best you can.”

“Captain!” she said. “I really must object!” The others froze. She calmed her voice, about a notch below frantic. “The very fabric of an individual’s psychological stability can be torn to shreds by a cult, leading to the most severe psychiatric symptoms, even in a person with no history of mental disorder. And if Inspector Richetti is suffering from mental distress of any kind, it would render him susceptible to what might well prove to be a sophisticated, sustained thought reform and control program. Let’s not endanger—”

“Doctor,” Captain Switzer interjected, “we appreciate your assistance and your advice. But you have to understand, a murder trail grows cold very quickly. We don’t have time for all your tests. We don’t have time for you to teach John everything you know about cults. We need to get him inside Earthbound, pronto.”

Marilyn sighed. Cops just never did get it. “I’ll block it,” she said, just as the others screeched their chairs back, ready to stand. “I’ll block the entire investigation. I’ll go upstairs, Captain, over your head, and I’ll do my level best to get the whole operation called off.”

She locked eyes with the captain, although in the right corner of her vision she could see John Richetti’s mouth agape. Captain Switzer broke the silence about ten seconds into it.

“How about a compromise, Doctor? If you’re so worried about the psychiatric risks, then why don’t you go inside the cult along with John and babysit him?”

“Hmm,” she said. The captain didn’t want her involved in the investigation, of course. He was simply trying to salvage it, or at least guarantee its survival. Yet the offer tempted her enormously. From inside the cult, she could monitor and mitigate the psychological danger to Inspector Richetti while at the same time taking advantage of a rare research opportunity to observe a cult first hand, a bizarre cult, it seemed certain, based on what the FBI had reported. “Tempting.”

John stared at the captain in disbelief. “You want me to work undercover with a . . . civilian?”

Captain Switzer said, “She’s been through the police academy, Richetti. She’s a sworn officer, not just a shrink. Otherwise, the department couldn’t put her in harm’s way doing hostage negotiations. Doctor Michaelsen’s probably had a gun stuck in her face more often than you have.”

Marilyn smacked the table with an open palm. “I’ll do it.”

Captain Switzer smiled. “Hear that, Richetti? You’ve got yourself a babysitter.”

John turned on her with a gruff exhale. “Any background in undercover work, Doctor Michaelsen?”

“No.”

“Any training or experience at all in detection?”

“Outside the academy, no.”

John swung his gaze back to Captain Switzer. “You know who’s going to babysit who, don’t you?”

They were outside in the hall, meeting adjourned, heading back to their respective desks, when Marilyn pulled John Richetti aside with a tug at the sleeve of his jacket. His dark, sad eyes and the droopy folds of skin pulling down his face were Saint Bernard-like.

“May I ask, Inspector, why it is that you volunteered to infiltrate the cult yourself?”

“No,” he said, and a moment later, all she could see was the broad expanse of his back.

In blue jeans faded and torn at one knee Marilyn Michaelsen walked the streets of Berkeley. She’d been hoofing it all day.

She would work her way down Telegraph Avenue, past folk musicians and performers, past New Age soothsayers offering I Ching and tarot card readings, past the ubiquitous coffee houses and book stores, past the international eateries and the European style specialty markets. Then she would turn onto Dwight Avenue, where a gauntlet of leaflet distributors would thrust color-paper tracts at her, treatises on every conceivable topic, including a purported CIA plot to assassinate aging pop star Mick Jagger.

On she would go, skirting infamous People’s Park, where culture-rocking 60’s student protest had long since given way to junkie languor, then over to College Avenue, where a corner vendor sold aphrodisiac tree bark brews and silken robed Hare Khrishnas chanted. On she would go, returning to Telegraph Avenue by way of Durant Avenue, or sometimes Channing Way, where the Alternative Living Medicine Health Clinic stood. She planned to visit the clinic soon, not only to relieve her blistering feet, but also to experience whatever bizarre treatment would be prescribed.