Authors: Jason Dean
The footlocker contained a simple black box file, like the ones found in almost any stationers. It was made of stout board
with wooden ends, and had a flush-fitting lid with a press button lock on the side. This particular one was worn with age,
with no labels to identify its contents.
Bishop reached in and pulled
it out. It was heavier than he’d expected.
‘Here, use this,’ Price said and slid his ongoing projects and tools to one side of the workbench. Bishop brought the file
over and placed it on the heavily scarred surface, along with his cell phone. Then he pressed the lid lock and opened the
file.
The interior was packed tight with paperwork, all
held in place by a metal spring-loaded clamp. Everything was in plastic
sealed evidence bags or clear wallets. He released the clamp, gathered everything in both hands and spread it all out on the
worktop.
Standing on the opposite side, Price said, ‘Want me to leave you to it?’
‘Up to you,’ Bishop said with a shrug. If Price felt the need to
stick around Bishop wouldn’t stop him. Besides, he figured
the man had a right to see what he’d been guarding all this time.
Bishop picked up an evidence bag containing a single sheet of paper. Inside was an abandoned draft of a letter. The almost
childish handwriting tilted heavily to the right, but every word was clearly legible.
It
read:
This is the Zodiac speaking. I am the killer of the taxi driver by Washington Square
. . . The words ‘killer’ and ‘Square’ had been crossed out and replaced with ‘murderer’ and ‘Street’. It continued: . . .
and Maple Street last night and
. . .
The letter finished there.
Ebert must have changed his mind, or started another draft. Either way, Bishop knew
he’d found Hoover’s Zodiac file. At some
point, these
things had all been in contact with the serial killer. Even though the letter was sealed in an airtight evidence bag, Bishop
felt dirty just holding it.
Bishop saw Price still standing there and handed him the letter before pulling out another evidence bag. It contained a piece
of folded black
material with no markings. Frowning, he put it to one side and picked up two more bags, each containing a
hardback book. The larger one was a manual on ciphers and codes. The smaller one gave a history of the Roman alphabet.
Busy boy
, Bishop thought. He could almost picture the patient in his hospital room, sitting on his bed, patiently teaching himself
the
perfect system with which to screw with the press while he randomly picked off members of the public.
‘Hey, is this for real?’ Price said, studying the unfinished letter with wide eyes.
‘I sure hope so,’ Bishop said and glanced down as his cell phone made a beeping sound. A message had arrived. He opened it
up and read,
No luck. U?
It had to be from
Aleron. He quickly keyed in a reply:
Yes. Talk later
. and sent it off.
He grabbed another wallet and pulled out a three-page typed memo addressed to Director Hoover. It was dated November 17, 1969.
Bishop saw Arthur Mandrake’s name and signature on the last page. According to the report, Ebert had admitted himself voluntarily
in December 1967, complaining
of frequent blackouts and gaps in his memory after smoking a few joints with friends one night.
Bishop had known plenty of people who smoked. Which meant he was aware that weed was no more dangerous than alcohol, and far
less addictive. And it certainly didn’t have the power to turn a person psychotic. But he guessed maybe it could act as a
catalyst for someone
with an underlying psychological condition. It seems the docs thought so too and a diagnosis of ‘manic
depressive illness’ was made shortly after his admittance.
Attached to the memo was a hospital report listing the dates Ebert went missing, as well as his final discharge papers from
the hospital. He released himself and re-joined society on December 17,
1969. Bishop knew the killings had stopped by then,
so they must have finally found a drug that worked. Or at least one that kept him on an even keel. Bishop hoped so. He didn’t
like to think what might have happened if
Ebert stopped taking his medication. Or how many other unsolved murders there’d been during the last forty years.
‘You should find this interesting,’
he said to Price, slipping the sheets back in the wallet and passing them over.
Then he picked up a file labelled
FBI Forensics Report
. Inside were blood results from a black, cotton executioner’s-type hood found in Ebert’s room with a crosshair logo stitched
on the chest. Which explained the mysterious evidence bag he’d just handled. Bryan Hartnell, the surviving witness
of the
murder of Cecelia Shepard at Lake Berryessa, reported that the killer had worn a garment just like it. The test results showed
traces of Shepard’s and Hartnell’s blood on the cloak, as well as hair samples that matched Ebert’s. They also found Ebert’s
prints all over the two books and stationery.
From Bishop’s viewpoint, it was all pretty
damning. Even though his own case had taught him the danger of jumping to conclusions,
this kind of evidence was hard to ignore.
Bishop checked his watch. 23.58. Thorpe was due to call in two minutes and he had a strong feeling the bastard would be punctual.
Unless he wanted to play games. Either way, he knew Thorpe badly wanted these files, but he still
hadn’t discovered why. What
was it about Ebert that made this information so valuable?
‘This is some unbelievable shit, ain’t it?’ Price said as he went through Mandrake’s paperwork. ‘News networks would pay big
money for this.’
‘I guess,’ Bishop said and dropped the forensics folder in front of him. He reached for one of the polypropylene
wallets and
pulled out six flimsy carbon copy sheets held together by a paper clip. They were copies of Ebert’s billing records from November
’68 to December ’69. They stated that all his bills were paid for by the Kebnekaise organization.
Kebnekaise
. There was that name again. Bishop suddenly remembered the note Luke had given him and reached into his pocket
for it. He’d
not had a chance to check before now.
Unfolding it, he saw a page of double-spaced text giving a brief profile of the company. Bishop assumed Luke had hijacked
it straight from some government server. It confirmed its current status as a non-profit organization and listed the Willow
Reeves Rest Home in San Francisco, California as its
sole holding. It also recorded the company’s date of registration, August
7, 1967 and the fact that it was awarded tax-exempt
status the next year on May 19. Then came a year-by-year listing of the organization’s gross turnover. The figures weren’t
impressive. To Bishop, it looked as though the place was just getting by. Then came the names of its current board of directors.
None of the four names did he recognize.
But there was one more line of text underneath, giving the name of the person who originally registered the company. That
was a name he
did
recognize. And if it meant what he thought it meant, Bishop could understand why Thorpe was so obsessed with the file. And
why he’d gone to such lengths to obtain it.
Bishop pursed his lips as he sorted through the two remaining items on the worktop. There was a report by an Agent Gilbert
Deveraux, listing everything found in Ebert’s room on November 20, 1969, most of it on the table in front of him. Underneath
that, Bishop found Ebert’s original hospital admission sheet. It was inside a beige card folder with Ebert’s
name and date
of birth typed on the front. Inside, glued to the top right corner, was a forty-year-old black and white headshot of ‘Timothy
Ebert’.
Bishop felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. This was it. Once you had the final piece, everything fell into place.
Everything. But even though it only confirmed Luke’s findings, it was still
a jolt seeing the faintly familiar face staring
back at him. The family resemblance was remarkable. Last time he’d seen it had been almost five years before. On the evening
news. A brief piece covering the guy’s death from natural causes, with some predictable speculation on how his son was taking
it. But the fact that he was dead made absolutely no difference to the
file’s significance now. Bishop knew that. It was what
that particular face represented that mattered most. This file would be worth a fortune to the right people. Which meant the
wrong
people would almost certainly pay even more for it.
Just then, a brief gasping sound made Bishop look up. Price threw the papers he was holding on the floor and placed both
hands
on the edge of the table with his arms straight out. His lips moved, but no sounds came out. He stared at a point above Bishop’s
head for a few moments, then he slumped to the floor.
At the bottom of the stairs stood Thorpe. A silenced Glock in his hand.
Bishop’s instincts took over and his left hand pulled the Beretta from his waistband in less than a second. He aimed it dead
centre on Thorpe’s forehead. The sight on top of the barrel remained perfectly still, as though connected to its target by
an invisible rod.
‘Drop it,’ Bishop said.
‘Sure thing,
Jimmy.’ Thorpe smiled, made a star of his hand, and the piece fell to the floor with a loud clunk. Then he came
forward, stooped down to pick up the papers Price had dropped, and approached the desk.
With the barrel of the Beretta never wavering from the man’s head, Bishop circled him and backed towards the stairs.
Thorpe laughed and moved into Bishop’s
previous position, rummaging through the wallets as though the gun didn’t exist. ‘So
you found the tracking device, huh?’ he said. ‘Bet you quit looking after you found that first one, right? Come on, Jimmy,
you should know by now I never do anything half-assed.’
Bishop picked up Thorpe’s gun and knelt down next to Price, still keeping an eye on Thorpe. Price’s
left leg was bent at an
angle under the right and a small pool of blood crept out from under the silk of the kimono. He placed his fingertips at the
man’s jugular and it was a few seconds before he felt a pulse. Bishop couldn’t see where the bullet had entered, but unless
Price received help straight away he didn’t see much hope.
‘Don’t waste your
time,’ Thorpe said. ‘A locksmith who doesn’t secure his own front door properly deserves everything he gets.’
‘You’re real good at shooting people in the back, aren’t you?’ Bishop said, rising. ‘But then, you’ve had plenty of practice.’
Thorpe smiled. ‘Now, now, Jimmy. You wouldn’t be trying to bait me, would you?’
‘Maybe you should just tell me where
Jenna is. Before we see how many parts of your anatomy you can do without.’
Thorpe glanced up from the papers in his hands, still smiling. ‘You know, they say a man with a gun can get almost anything
he wants, unless the man without one has an edge. How about it, Jimmy? You think I just blundered in on impulse, or could
it be I’ve got something up my sleeve?’
With exaggerated slowness, Thorpe put his hand in his pants pocket and brought out
a cell phone. Bishop watched him place it on the workbench and felt his advantage slipping away like water down a drain.
Thorpe said, ‘You can send it now, Danny,’ and pushed Bishop’s phone across. He went back to reading and fifteen seconds later
Bishop’s own cell beeped twice.
‘Pick it up, partner. Danny’s sent you a midnight movie.’ Thorpe looked at his watch and said,
‘Actually, ten past.’
Bishop grabbed the cell with his free hand and accessed his messages folder. It contained an MPEG file and he opened it.
The footage was shaky and showed a medium shot of Jenna. She was fully dressed and bound to a sturdy wooden chair
in the centre
of a well-lit, high-ceilinged, windowless room. From the refuse strewn across the floor and general air of neglect, Bishop
guessed it was a disused warehouse somewhere. The only other furniture was a long wooden table next to Jenna’s chair. On the
table was a black box and a selection of sharp-looking cutting implements laid out in a neat row. There were two
more equally
neglected rooms in the background, each one divided by a wall containing an entranceway wide enough to accommodate a large
truck. In the last room, Bishop could make out a human figure lying in a foetal position on the floor. Maybe a homeless person
had found a way in and never had the chance to regret it. Beyond him, or her, was an open doorway with a couple
of steps just
visible, leading up.
The camera moved in closer on Jenna. She was slumped in the chair with her face towards the floor, hair falling over her cheeks.
Bishop couldn’t tell if she was conscious or not. Then Danny panned down to her feet and Bishop saw the electrical wires wrapped
around her big toes, held in place with medicinal bandages.
The camera moved along the wires until it reached their source
on the table: the black box with four dials on the front. Bishop could swear he actually heard it humming. Danny pulled the
camera away and a blurred hand came into view and touched one of the dials before the picture returned to Jenna in the chair.
Bishop closed his eyes. Then opened them.
He knew what was coming.
Jenna’s head suddenly snapped back hard. The high-pitched scream that came from the phone’s speaker made Thorpe jump, and
then laugh. Bishop’s grip on the phone tightened so much he thought it might break. He watched her body fight against the
bonds as the voltage surged through her. He counted twelve seconds before the screams ended and
the electricity was turned
off.
He watched Jenna dry-heave and spit repeatedly on the floor, before she finally fell back against the chair, exhausted. He
knew she’d been trying to rid herself of the acid-metallic taste in her mouth. It was a peculiar taste, Bishop knew. One that
stayed in your mouth for days as a nice little reminder.
Then Jenna’s eyes opened and she turned her head towards her tormentor. She stared directly into the camera for a moment and
then screamed, ‘
You goddamn freak dog! This is what gets you off, is it? Are you so—
’
The movie clip ended, cutting her off in mid-cry.
Bishop looked up. Thorpe hadn’t moved. But nor had his own hand. The gun was still
pointing at Thorpe’s head. His finger was
still on the trigger.
An ounce of pressure
, he thought.
Maybe two
. Just that much and Thorpe’s trail of bodies would stop. But it wouldn’t yet, of course. Not quite yet. With Danny listening
at the other end of the line, Bishop understood who was in control for the time being.
As Bishop slowly lowered the gun, Thorpe
said, ‘The left hemisphere in charge now? Okay, that was just something to soften
her up a little. You saw the knives on that table? Well, Danny’s gonna take great pleasure in using them on Jenna unless we
come to terms here.’
‘What terms?’ Bishop said. ‘Your file’s right there. Just tell me where she is.’
Thorpe shook his head. ‘Guns first.’
Bishop stepped forward and placed both pieces on the workbench, then took a step back. Thorpe slid them over to his side,
picked up his Glock and pulled a disposable hypodermic from his jacket pocket. He placed it on the table near Bishop.
‘Hang fire for a while, Danny,’ he said and closed the connection on the phone. Then he picked up a file on Ebert
and started
reading like he had all the time in the world, only looking up every now and then to check Bishop hadn’t moved. Bishop watched
him and thought of the
knife in his ankle holster. He thought of how he could reach it before Thorpe put a bullet in him. And once he reached it,
he could practically guarantee Thorpe would talk. Bishop knew how to make him sing like
a lark.
‘It’s this last batch of papers that really seals the deal, don’t you think?’ Thorpe said. He was staring at the admission
sheet like a man in love. ‘I gotta tell you I’m impressed. Didn’t I say how resourceful you could be when you set your mind
to it?’
‘And it’s all thanks to you,’ Bishop said. ‘Was it worth it?’
‘You tell me,’ Thorpe said, meeting Bishop’s gaze. ‘What’s the going price for conclusive evidence that this country’s most
infamous serial killer was Timothy Hemming, the current US Attorney General’s father?’