The Sin Keeper Page 3

  Channeler would remain his and his alone.

  He had already deployed it against them.

  They just didn’t know it yet.

  This was how it had to be. There was no other way. Besides Alma, there had been only one other love in his life Merrick had treasured; his daughter, Paige, who had been ripped from their lives in the cruelest way a daughter could be wrenched away from two loving parents.

  With Alma and Paige dead, Merrick was utterly alone at a time in his life when he should have been celebrating his personal and professional success surrounded by the family he so loved. Instead he had become emotionally obliterated. Nothing mattered anymore, not even his esteemed reputation or his Top-Secret clearance. There were no rules left worth abiding by, no achievements worth a damn, no allegiances worth honoring.

  All that remained was an unquenchable desire to find and destroy whoever had managed to pump the vitality out of him and leave in its place untenable bitterness and racking pain.

  The white cotton Tommy Bahama shirt gaily flowered with pale yellow hibiscus and red ohia had proven to be an ideal choice to wear on this sunny Southern California day. The fit was comfortable and loose and nicely concealed the Beretta pistol he had taken from dead Dan’s glove box between his waistband and the small of his back. The store clerk had paired the shirt with stylish white slacks and a canvas belt, tan leather Rockport’s, and a palm braid Fedora. All had been excellent choices. The cushioned soles of the shoes silenced Merrick’s footfall as he walked past the RV. He’d left the Fedora on the front seat of the truck. The thought of burning the top of his head under the hot sun was preferable to the embarrassment of having to huff and puff his way along the beach chasing after the hat should a sudden gust of wind blow it off his head. He liked his new look so much that he wore the clothes out of the store. He bundled his stodgy old apparel into the shopping bag and tossed them in the trunk of the Suburban.

  Merrick examined himself once more in the window of the RV. He had always been physically weak man, preferring the development of his mind to that of his body. But strength (or even the Beretta for that matter) would not be required for him to find peace. He possessed two far deadlier assets, both of which he could bank on to obtain the justice he sought: the genius of his mind, and Project Channeler.

  He trailed his fingers alongside the RV. The dusty vehicle shuddered under the energy of his touch. The mountain bikes shook and clattered against one another in the rack.

  In the short time since he had arrived at Laguna Beach the parking lot had already reached its full capacity. The main entrance had been closed. Latecomers were being redirected to overflow lots across the street and down the road. Along the beach, volleyballs were being served high and spiked hard into the soft sand by well-tanned, rambunctious teens. Melanoma-conscious seniors lounged under blue canvas canopies, protected from the wrinkle-inducing UV rays of the sun. Some talked while others read or listened to music. Seagulls glided inches above the gently rolling Pacific in search of food that ventured fatally close to the surface of the water.

  It seemed to Merrick that the police presence was unusually high for this relatively early hour of the day. Officers strolled along the beach and engaged the public in polite conversation. Down the beach from the volleyball game a well–muscled cop with movie-star good looks straddled his bicycle and leaned over the handlebars, chatting up three beautiful young women. The cop laughed and shifted his weight purposefully from side to side, his powerfully-defined arms and legs flexing impressively. Merrick recognized the girls as the travelers in the atmosphere-defiling Winnebago.

  Purchasing an ice cream cone from a vendor, Merrick walked along the beach and sat on a bench situated near the water’s edge. From the shore to the horizon the glittering rays of the sun sparkled on the ocean like the camera flashes of celebrity–seeking paparazzi.

  Finishing the tasty treat, Merrick touched the metal band on his wrist. The energy field became visible. The band began to change color, first to blue, then yellow, finally rose-red. Activating the brain-neural interface supercharged his body. He submitted to its power, closed his eyes, and watched the blackness in front of them melt away. His mind no longer a blind and barren landscape, Merrick observed with clarity the multidimensional images Channeler provided to him.

  He paused before venturing further, testing the mindscape as a wild animal might call upon its trusted olfactory senses to reveal the presence of a hidden predator.

  Merrick telepathically sought out the neuro-signature of his trial subject and observed his location in his mind.

  A large building… a warehouse perhaps.

  Banks of broken windows…

  An obscenity-scarred wall...

  The rank smell of burnt machine oil.

  CHAPTER 5

  CHRIS HANOVER parted the bedroom curtains and looked down upon the gathering crowd. Outside the iron perimeter of the Rosenfeld estate police struggled to keep news crews at bay. Reporters attempted to out-flank one another in order to acquire the perfect backdrop for their live-to-air report of the ongoing murder investigation.

  As the Forensics team photographed and videotaped the crime scene, Jordan showed them the secret panic room they had found hidden behind the bedroom wall.

  She removed the flash drive from her pocket and handed it to Forensics Specialist Steve Reynolds. “I need to know what’s on this right away. Meet you in Mobile Command in ten minutes?”

  “You got it J,” Reynolds replied. He took the device and left the room.

  “Judging by the number of flies buzzing around out there it looks like this has become a real media shit storm,” Hanover remarked as he watched additional teams of reporters converge on the scene.

  A young agent named Hawkins handed him a report. “Sir, Command asked me to give you this. It’s a work up on the victims.”

  “Thanks,” Chris replied.

  Hanover paced as he read the report aloud. “Itzhak Rosenfeld. Seventy-four years old. Israeli by birth. Emigrated to California with his wife, Zahava, in ‘86. Physician. Practiced here for twenty-five years. It seems the good doctor is… make that was… one of the world’s preeminent plastic surgeons. His area of expertise was facial reconstruction and body defect surgery.”

  “I should have studied medicine instead of law,” Jordan said. “A nose job here, tummy tuck there. Cha-ching.”

  “According to this, Rosenfeld’s work as a surgeon represented only a fraction of how he earned his wealth.”

  “It gets better?” Jordan said. “Now you’re just teasing me.”

  “A lot better,” Chris replied. “It says here he was a prolific inventor of medical instruments and implants and pioneered many advanced surgical procedures. The man has over seven hundred patents to his name, plus copyrights and trademarks. Net worth is estimated at two billion.”

  “The book laying on the floor beside his bed deals with patent law.”

  “You think maybe he was killed out of professional jealousy?”

  “Can’t rule it out. Maybe somebody had two billion reasons to want him dead.”

  Hanover nodded and flipped to the next page of the report. “It seems the Rosenfeld’s had established a number of non-profits, the most notable of which is FreeSurge, a humanitarian plastic and cosmetic surgery organization that performs operations on the poor, free of charge. Corrections to cleft palates and birth defects, repairs to the scars of war victims… that sort of thing. They’d raised millions over the years to fund the operational expenses of their charities.”

  “This doesn't make any sense,” Jordan said. “How could two people who had done so much for so many end up like this?” She pointed to the corpses on the bed. “And what’s with the arsenal in the safe room? I can see hiding a few handguns around the place, just in case. But all that weaponry? You and I don't even need that. And we deal with bad guys every day. And I can absolutely guarantee you there’s no body armor hanging in my bedroom closet.”

 
; “Good thing,” Chris replied. “You’d have a hard time finding something in your color. Besides, it’s tough to match Kevlar with Vera Wang. You’d need a stylist.”

  “Seriously, Chris. That level of preparation is way over the top. The Rosenfeld’s were afraid of something. Or someone.”

  “I agree. It doesn’t add up.”

  “Anything in that report about Mrs. Rosenfeld?”

  Hanover flipped the page. “Actually, it’s Judge Zahava Rosenfeld, United States District Court for the Central District of California, Western Division, Los Angeles County. Very bright lady. Two degrees. The first an M.D. from Harvard, the second in law, from Yale. Judge Rosenfeld never practiced medicine, only law. Says here she was a fixture at charity fundraisers and Hollywood galas. You can name it, the Rosenfeld’s supported it.”

  “Kids?”

  “None.”

  “What about family?”

  “Dr. Rosenfeld’s only brother passed away last year. Her Honor’s parents died in Tel Aviv in 2001. Victims of a suicide bombing. No siblings.” Hanover glanced at the bodies. “Did you see anything else when you touched the railing?”

  “Just what I said before. Single-shooter, male… likely a pro. But something about him is off.”

  “Off?” Chris said. “You think? In my book anyone who kills like this fits the category of off rather nicely.”

  “I can’t explain it any better than that.”

  “Your visions are always so clear, Jordan. What’s different here?”

  “The UNSUB’s energy signature. I’ve never experienced one like it before. It fades in and out, kind of like a radio station signal that’s not quite in range. Usually I see everything: the killer's face, surroundings, manner of dress, sights, and smells. Sometimes even the images of their victims will come through. But my reading on this killer is incomplete. As ridiculous as it sounds, it feels like I’m being… blocked.”

  “Any similarities to other cases?”

  “You mean the El Segundo and Long Beach murders?”

  “Yes.”

  Earlier in the week the agents had been called out to investigate two horrific killings that appeared to be related. The first victim, Michael Dowd, had been the owner of The Golden Rail, a famous strip club in El Segundo. Dowd had been enjoying a late-night swim when he was attacked. He had been found dead in his pool by his girlfriend, a dancer at the club, hands bound behind his back, feet tied to the side rails of the pool ladder, hanging upside down in the crimson water. He had been shot in the forehead. Hours later, police found his club manager, Julie Harper, dead in her Long Beach condominium. She was nude, hands and feet tied to the bed, legs spread eagle. A can of tire puncture sealant had been pushed into her mouth, its inflation tube shoved deep down her throat. The release trigger had been jammed open. The contents of the can had been permitted to free-flow which flooded her airway with gluey orange foam and led to her immediate suffocation and death. The contents of a second can had been expelled into her vagina. She too had received a fatal gunshot wound to the head.

  “Who the hell is this guy?” Chris said. “Four victims in one week and forensics hasn’t turned up a shred of evidence. No fibers, prints, DNA ... nothing. No one sees or hears a thing. And all we get on security cams is static. It’s like the guy’s a goddamn ghost. He pops in, does the deed, then poof... he’s gone.”

  “Let me work the room again. Maybe I missed something.”

  “Even you can’t see what isn’t there, Jordan.”

  “I know. And for the record, he’s pissing me off too.”

  Forensics had begun to process the secret room. Agent Ron Perkins, the teams lead investigator, walked out of the closet entrance carrying a notebook computer under each arm. Jordan stopped him.

  “Ron,” Jordan asked, “I understand Chef Hershoff was the first to arrive this morning.”

  “That’s right,” Perkins said. “Got here at four this morning, which for him is the norm. He opens the kitchen by five and has breakfast ready for the Rosenfeld’s by six. The couple always kept to the same routine.”

  “He found the front door open when he arrived?”

  Perkins nodded. “And the alarm off. When he stepped inside he saw the roses laying on the floor and the glow from the votives upstairs. When he called out and didn't get a response he knew something was wrong. He got scared, ran out of the house and called 9-1-1. When LAPD arrived and saw the scene they thought it might be our guy. They called us right away.”

  “Did your guys find anything when you processed Herschoff?”

  “Just a few crystal shards stuck to the soles of his shoes which he picked up when he stepped through the front door. Besides than that he was clean.”

  “And no other staff were on duty at the time?

  “None,” Perkins said. According to Hershoff, the Rosenfeld’s had very strict rules when it came to their privacy. Unless they were hosting an event, no staff were to be on site after nine p.m. We allowed the maids, groundskeepers, and the Rosenfeld's personal driver through the barricade earlier. Needless to say, they’re all pretty shook up. We’re taking their statements in Mobile Command right now.”

  “So we have nothing to work with... again.”

  “Like Chris said, this guy’s a ghost.”

  Agent Hawkins burst through the doorway, took a second to catch his breath, then spoke to Jordan and Chris. “Reynolds needs to see you in the MCU right away.”

  “He found something?” Jordan asked.

  Hawkin’s nodded. “The flash drive,” he said. “You’re not going to believe what’s on it.”

  CHAPTER 6

  “SON, STOP staring at my credentials and open the goddamn gate!”

  Colonel Quentin Hallier snatched his identification card out of the guard’s hand and inched his car towards the too slow to open security gate. Finally clear of the barrier, he accelerated up the winding driveway of Dynamic Life Sciences as department heads quickly marshaled scientists and staff out of the building to designated EVACUATION stations.

  Hallier screeched the car to a halt at the main entrance to the facility, stepped out of the vehicle, slammed the door, adjusted his tie, snapped his waistcoat taught and grumbled a slew of obscenities under his breath. Battle-proven and tasked with moving forward the most top-secret military science projects of the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, otherwise known as DARPA, Colonel Hallier was not accustomed to exchanging pleasantries. At six-foot-four, two-hundred-and-forty pounds he was an imposing presence who projected a don’t-even-think-of-screwing-with-me bravado and a pot-boiling temper which seemed permanently set on high simmer.

  Hallier marched through the doorway and straight past Dr. Sook Han where he was met by a four-man armed security detail. “Talk to me, doctor,” he said. “Tell me what you know.”

  Dr. Han hurried after the Colonel. The empty facility was quiet except for the echoing footfalls of the six men as they walked down the corridor toward the wing marked LABS.

  “Shortly after eleven A.M. this morning,” Han said, “a biohazard alarm was activated in the ANNBIC lab."

  Hallier shot him a glance. “I don’t speak scientist doctor. English please.”

  “Artificial Neural Network Brain Interface Communications lab, Colonel. We initiated Red Door protocol immediately. The suspected pathogen has been contained to the lab.”

  “Thus the lockdown.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Casualties?”

  “Two dead.”

  “Cause?”

  “At first, we thought it might have been a contagion… some type of chemical attack the air-sniffing robots failed to detect – a nanospore, perhaps. North Korea has been working on that technology for years. But as it turned out it’s some type of poison.”

  “So not airborne?”

  “No, sir. The Biological and Infectious Agent Response Team is in the lab now. They sampled the air. It passed. But when they fogged the lab they discovered yellow residue on t
he microscope dials. Some sort of clear liquid. We think a nerve agent was applied to the equipment. It turned color when it came in contact with the fogging chemical. I believe that as soon as the scientists touched the equipment the poison was transferred through their fingertips and into their bloodstream. Because it was invisible they couldn't see it on the dials. It was just a matter of time before it attacked their central nervous system. The sample is being analyzed now to determine exactly what it is. Regardless, they didn't stand a chance.”

  “Jesus.”

  Arrived at the lab entrance, Dr. Han turned to Hallier. “Colonel, there’s something I need to say.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “With the possible exception of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in Atlanta, DLS is the most secure research facility in the country and one of the best in the world. We’ve never had an incident occur here since we opened the doors fifteen years ago. This entire wing requires both retinal pattern biometric scanning and voice recognition to get through each door. In addition, there are three armed security checkpoints which staff must clear just to get to their lab. Yet despite all that security we end up going from zero occurrences to Red Door Protocol in minutes. Being breached once means we could get hit again. The next time it could be worse.”