Sullivan's Law (7 page)

The system had been manipulated.

E
n route to her appointment with Daniel Metroix at the Seagull Motel Tuesday evening, Carolyn retrieved her cell phone out of her purse and called her house. “Where have you been?” she asked when her son answered.

“Here,” John told her. “I called you back. Didn't you get the message?”

“No,” his mother said. “I must have already left the office when you called. I took off early. What's going on? Did you defrost the meatloaf like I asked you to this morning?”

“Rebecca hates meatloaf,” John told her. “That's why it's been in the freezer for two months. When are you coming home?”

“I should be there by seven at the latest,” she said. “If you're hungry, go ahead and eat without me.”

“What are we supposed to eat?” John asked, his voice tinged with annoyance. “You need to go to the grocery store. We don't have anything to make for our lunches tomorrow, let alone any food for dinner.”

“I'll pick something up,” Carolyn told him. “Where's your sister?”

“Holed up in the bathroom,” John said. “She's dying her hair purple.”

Carolyn shouted, “Get her butt on the phone!”

“I'm kidding,” her son said, although he sounded despondent. “You're never here, so what do you care? I've been stuck on this calculus problem for over two days. We're going to have to figure something out, Mom, or my grades are going to slide. I can't handle everything by myself. I cook, do laundry, tutor Rebecca.”

“I understand,” Carolyn told him. “We'll talk about it this weekend. I only called to tell you I was going to be late. Don't eat, okay? I'll call you back in five minutes.” She started to hang up, then realized she was being insensitive. “I appreciate everything you do, John. I promise I'll find a way to lighten your load.”

“I'm sorry I complained. I guess I'm tired tonight.”

“I love you,” Carolyn told him. “You don't have to apologize, sweetheart. Your complaints are valid. I may take this semester off anyway. I'm tired too.”

She hit the auto dial on her phone. Neil picked up on the fourth ring. “I'm glad you're home,” she said. “I need you.”

“God's always home when you need him,” her brother quipped. “What's going on now?”

“Are you busy?”

“I have a show next week,” he said. “I also have a gorgeous naked model in the bedroom panting for my attention. Even you'd fall in love with this girl. She has the face and body of an angel.”

“I'm not interested in girls,” Carolyn told him. “Put the naked chick on ice and take my kids out for dinner. I have to do a home check on a parolee. John claims there's no food in the house. You owe me for not showing up at Mother's on Sunday. She had me make you a damn pie, for God's sake.”

“Was it that layered banana thing you make with vanilla wafers and whipped cream? That's my favorite.”

“Yeah,” she said. “We ate it, or I would have driven over and smashed it in your face. You know I don't have time to make pies. I barely have time to go to the bathroom.”

“I'll pick John and Rebecca up in fifteen minutes.”

“Thanks,” Carolyn told him. “Call and tell them to get ready. If you bail me out tonight, I promise I'll make you another banana pie.”

“I'm afraid the show is going to be a disaster.”

Here we go,
she thought. She'd been expecting a melt-down. “Everything will be great.”

“You don't understand,” Neil said in hushed tones, not wanting the girl in the other room to hear. “The economy sucks right now. People aren't investing in art. Because I sold a lot of paintings last year doesn't mean this year will be the same. I've been thinking of selling the house.”

As confident as he came across, Neil was emotionally fragile. Carolyn assumed it was his artistic temperament. He always got nervous before a big show. “Relax,” she said. “Didn't you sell a painting last month for thirty grand?”

“Yeah,” he said. “But that was an exception. The guy was so stupid he would have bought a blank canvas. He had a lot of money, that's all. I think he's some kind of gangster who's trying to pass himself off as a society guy. When he figures out I've never sold a painting in that price range, he'll probably come back and chop me up into pieces.”

Oh boy, Carolyn thought, now she was talking to the twelve-year-old Neil. When her brother got upset, he started regressing. “Didn't the
L.A. Times
do a feature on you?”

“Yes, but—”

“Listen to me,” she said. “You're a wonderful artist. As long as you don't go hog wild, you have enough money to carry you for at least five years. And that's if you don't sell any paintings, understand? You bought Mom that expensive condominium in Camarillo. Since you bought it outright, we can always get a mortgage on it. You've loaned me money more times than I want to admit. I love you, Neil. Everyone loves you. Your show is going to be fantastic. You're going to make a ton of money. If you don't, it doesn't matter.”

“I don't know what I would do without you,” Neil said, letting out a long sigh. “You're the string that holds me together.”

“Same here,” she said. “You spend too much time in that shack behind the house that you use as a studio. Call John and Rebecca. Go somewhere fun. They'll make you feel better.”

Looking at the clock on the dashboard and seeing that it was already past five-thirty, she tossed her phone back into her purse and stepped on the accelerator.

 

Carolyn pulled into the parking lot of the Seagull Motel a few minutes before six. She'd always been a timely person. It made her nervous to be late. She thumbed through her keys and found the one that unlocked the glove box, then reached inside and pulled out her gun and shoulder holster. Removing the 9mm Ruger, she felt around until she found the ammo clip, then quickly inserted it. She hated guns. Although probation officers were sworn peace officers with a right to carry a firearm, until a year ago, probation officers in Ventura weren't armed. After a field officer was killed when he paid an unexpected home visit to a probationer who was in the middle of a major drug transaction, the department changed its policy. The fact that they were now supervising more parolees from prison was also a factor, as it intensified the danger.

She flicked on the dome light inside the Infiniti, checking the safety and making certain nothing was lodged inside the barrel of the gun. Five months had passed since she'd so much as unlocked the glove box, let alone carried the Ruger on her person. Because she'd accidentally left her jacket at the office, she felt stupid wearing the shoulder holster. Opening her purse, she dropped the gun inside, tossing the holster on the passenger seat. She had a bulletproof vest in the trunk. She wasn't even certain it fit, as she'd never gotten around to opening the box.

Carolyn was uncertain if she was safer with or without the gun. She'd investigated too many crimes involving firearms. Legislation regarding the registration of handguns was nothing more than a Band-Aid. The greatest majority of guns used in crimes were stolen from citizens who purchased them legally. People thought owning a gun would protect them. Nine times out of ten, the perpetrator used the victim's gun in the commission of the crime, or someone in the household got their hands on it and either killed himself or a family member.

She was no stranger to this type of tragedy. Her uncle had put the .38 caliber pistol he'd purchased at a pawn shop to protect his family to his head and blown his brains out. Carolyn and his fourteen-year-old daughter had been the ones to find him. These were the types of memories that stayed with a person for a lifetime.

She got out of her car and depressed the button for the alarm. The parking lot was almost empty. All she noticed was a black Chevy truck parked near the office. The location was good, she thought, but the hotel was badly in need of repair. Since they didn't appear to have many guests, she assumed they wouldn't be in business much longer. As she crossed the parking lot, she experienced an eerie sensation. Several times she turned around, certain she heard footsteps behind her.

Daniel had written down his room number as 221. Most of the rooms on the upper floors appeared to be dark, yet she clearly saw a man sitting in a chair in front of an open window.

Carolyn climbed the stairs two at a time. When she reached the room, she saw the key protruding from the lock. Standing to one side, she reached around and knocked, her hand resting on her gun inside her open purse. Daniel opened the door. “Why did you leave the key in the door?”

He ran his fingers through his hair. “I was working,” he said, gesturing toward a stack of papers on the table next to the lamp. “I leave the key in the door so I won't lock myself out. Sometimes there's no one in the office. It's not like I have anything to steal in here. I mean, I have my work. I can't see a thief running off with a bunch of papers he'll never be able to decipher.”

Carolyn wondered if he would ever adjust to the outside world. He had on the same shirt from the previous day. One side was protruding from his jeans, his hair was standing on end, and he was wearing only one sock and no shoes.

“I enjoy having a window,” Daniel said, walking over and placing his hands against the glass. “I didn't have a window in prison. When my eyes get tired, I can rest them by looking out at the ocean. Isn't it beautiful?”

While his back was turned, Carolyn quickly checked the closet and bathroom, looking for signs of weapons, drugs, or alcohol. Damn, she thought, she'd have to do another home visit once he found an apartment. “Did you find a place to live today?”

“No,” he said, turning around. “I don't have a car. I have the money to buy one, but I don't have a driver's license. I took the bus and tried to look at some apartments, then I got lost. No one knew where the bus stop was. I had to come home in a cab.”

Carolyn walked over to the cluttered table and picked up a piece of paper. On one side was a complex drawing, which she couldn't make out, and the other side was covered with equations. “What is this?”

“Oh,” Daniel said timidly, “I've been working on this for about eighteen years. It's an exoskeleton.”

“You didn't answer my question.” She recognized the word, but she didn't associate it with something a person could build. Eddie Downly had been a rapist and she'd failed to see it. The more Metroix rambled, the closer she would get to assessing the risk he posed in the community. “Refresh my memory. What exactly is an exoskeleton?”

“Certain animals have exoskeletons,” he explained. “A crab has one. You know, an exterior shell. I tried to build an exoskeleton for a guard's daughter who was partially paralyzed.”

Three parts delusion, one part science, Carolyn thought. It almost sounded like one of her mother's off-the-wall home chemistry projects. Baiting him, she continued, “So this is one of the projects you worked on in your lab at prison?”

“It didn't turn out very well,” Daniel told her, responding to her interest. “A human exoskeleton is an extremely complex device. The problem is developing the right material for the suit. That and figuring out how to provide a power source that's lightweight and portable. I think the government is working on the same problem. They want to enhance the performance of combat soldiers. They call it HPA, Human Performance Augmentation.”

Carolyn held up her hand. “Slow down,” she said. “Let me get this straight. Are you telling me you invented something eighteen years ago that the government is now developing for national security?”

“Yes, but I didn't invent an exoskeleton,” Daniel told her. “The only person who holds a patent on an exoskeleton is God. All homo sapiens are doing is trying to copy and adapt something that's part of nature.”

“God, huh?” Carolyn said, stunned that he'd maintained his religious beliefs after twenty-three years behind bars. Religious ideation, however, wasn't uncommon in schizophrenia.

“Yeah,” Daniel said, smiling. “And we'll probably never get it right. I could have the greatest lab in the world, the most brilliant minds, the best equipment. Do you think for one minute that I could create an ant, a dog, a horse, let alone a human being who could think and reason? God is the ultimate inventor.” He paused and rubbed his forehead, deep in thought.

“Did you invent anything else while you were in prison?”

“Sure,” Daniel said, having already had the same discussion with his attorney. “I invented all kinds of stuff. The first thing the prison used of mine was this multiscreen monitoring system, which also recorded on tape. They really liked that one because they could cut down on the number of guards on duty.”

Carolyn was at least familiar with this particular device. Businesses everywhere used video surveillance. “Was the VCR already around when you developed this?”

“The early prototype for the VCR was developed by a man named Charles Ginsburg while he was working at a company called Ampex. It was huge, though, almost as big as a piano. They later sold it to Sony. The first commercial VCR was released in 1971. I began working on the machine I made for the prison before I was arrested because some of the television components related to a communications system I was designing. I got it up and running about fifteen years ago.”

The time coincided with the dates on the first letter the warden had written recommending his release. “Did you ever sell one of your inventions?”

“I've never sold anything,” he answered. “To tell you the truth, I never even thought about making money off the things I invented. To me, it's work. It's what I do, you know. I see some kind of problem, and I do my best to solve it. Besides,” he added, not in the least concerned, “I signed over all rights to anything I invented while I was at Chino. That was the provision for me getting my own lab.”