Broken English

CHAPTER 6: MONDAY

8:39 AM, Monterey

         "I've been thinking," Zamora said as she and Kitfox walked across the police station parking lot, "two murders within a few days, two different killers both claiming amnesia. How can these not be related?"
         "Yeah, and yet, how do we prove it? Before that, even, how are they related? Conspiracy? Is Darnall somehow connected with this kid from Reno?"
         "We'll have to go through things like her address book, telephone records, that kind of stuff. If there's a connection, we'll find it. Nobody's thorough enough to hide everything. Nobody."
         "What if there isn't? What if this middle-class wife and mother has no connection to a burger-flipping kid in another state? What's our link then?"
         "I don't know." She stepped into the building as he held the door for her. "Maybe we need to look at what the victims had in common."
         "What would that prove if the killers acted independently?"
         "Agent Kitfox," the desk sergeant greeted them, "your office called. They want you to call them back. Do you have the number?"
         "Yes, Sergeant, thank you."
         "I don't know what it proves," Zamora said, continuing their conversation, "but look at what we've got. We get a murder with no apparent motive and the weirdest possible alibi, and within a couple of days the same alibi turns up in a case the FBI felt might be connected to begin with."
         "Any lawyer worth his fee will shoot that down within minutes," Kitfox said as they entered her cubicle. "when you have two murders here, and you arrest two suspects, you don't assume a connection because they both say they were at a bar with friends."
         "Yes, but this is different."
         "Not in the eyes of the law. Just because a thing is statistically unlikely doesn't mean it can't happen, and no defense attorney is going to let you get away with a statement like that."
         "Defense attorney," Zamora said.
         "Yes?"
         "He'll have to be informed of this development. Once you arrived, your findings became part of the disclosure requirement."
         "I know that. You don't inform him yourself, do you?"
         "No. I'll have to brief the prosecutor." She glanced at her watch, a man's model with all the bells and whistles. "He's probably still at his desk. If you want to call your office, I can give him a preliminary report now."
         "Good idea."
         He sat in front of her desk, took the phone she left available, and dialed Dixon's office. June, his secretary, put him through at once.
         "Leon, God damn it," Dixon greeted him, "what the hell are you still doing down there?"
         "Good morning to you, too, sir."
         "Cut the bullshit, Leon. I told you there'd be hell to pay if you weren't back here this morning. Do you have Jimmy Hoffa's body on you?"
         "No, sir."
         "Well, you'd better start digging! What the hell are you doing?"
         "I ordered some prints Wednesday. They aren't here yet."
         "The prints are moot. They have the guy. The guy, Leon. Not Susan Darnall, not her son, not the bag boy at her local market. Case closed. Hie thee hither!"
         "It isn't that clear from this end, sir."
         "It isn't that—" Kitfox could almost hear Dixon pinching the bridge of his nose over the phone. "All right, Leon, you tell me. What exactly isn't clear?"
         "The alibis."
         "Come again?"
         "We have two cases where two apparently normal, civilized members of society viciously murdered people who, as nearly as we can tell, were unknown to them. The level of violence in both cases was unreasonable, unnecessary to simply kill a person. It almost bordered on mutilation of the corpses. Darnall, of course, was caught almost in the act. The kid in Reno was able to leave the scene, but they caught him two weeks later because he was making no effort to flee or cover up his involvement. He just went back to work like he hadn't a care in the world, and then, from the moment he was arrested, he's been claiming amnesia, just like Darnall. Do you really think there's no connection? That it's all just a big, crazy coincidence?"
         A long silence was his only answer.
         "Boss?"
         "I'm thinking." Another silence, then, "there is such a thing as coincidence."
         "We're talking about a list of coincidences. The only thing different about these two killings is the killers."
         "That's not strictly true, but I'm starting to agree with you."
         "And the different murder weapons just means they probably used what they felt familiar with."
         "I said I agree with you. Here's how we're going to play it. I'll report your finding to His Nibs. You take today down there and see what you can develop. Call me tonight with whatever you've come up with, and we'll decide what your next move is."
         "What about those prints?"
         "Leon... Oh, shit. I'll have a messenger deliver them to the police station down there, though I can't imagine what earthly good they'll be to you."
         "When you have nothing, anything might be a lead."
         "Yeah, okay. And Leon, I don't know what you're onto down there, but these are ordinary human fingerprints, and, by God, they'd better stay that way!"
         "Don't worry, boss. And by the way, thanks."
         "Yeah, yeah. Don't let me down."
         "I wouldn't dream of it, sir."

9:52 AM, Monterey

         "You're Mr. Kitfox?"
         "Special Agent Kitfox, ma'am, San Francisco FBI."
         "And may I see your credentials?"
         "Of course." As he produced his "passport to everywhere," as he liked to call it, he sized the woman up. She was tall and exotic, leaning on forty, and just beginning to show the tiniest bit of middle-age spread. Too bad. He detected her Latin American roots, but the garnish eluded him. Asian certainly, Chinese maybe, or Filipino, but with her using her wedded name, Roberts, that detail would remain a mystery.
         "Gloria Roberts, acting manager," she told him, inviting him with a wave to her office. "What sort of name is Kitfox?"
         "Native American, ma'am. Shoshone."
         "Mmm. Pretty. Sit down." He did so. Her office was nothing more than a glorified cubicle, a personal space partitioned by Mahogony and smoked glass which allowed her to do her business with everybody watching but not hearing. "I apologize for the fact that things are still pretty hectic around here. Hopefully, I can clear up whatever questions you have, though we've told the police everything we know."
         "I appreciate that. This shouldn't take long. There are just a couple of little points I need to get clarified in my own mind. First, how did Mr. Durant know the suspect, Susan Darnall?"
         "That's a very underhanded way to ask a question which has been answered multiple times. He didn't."
         "Now it's my turn to apologize. Sometimes if you ask an old question in a new way, you get a new answer. Still, Mr. Durant's murder wasn't a random event."
         "You're quite sure of this?"
         "The woman is dedicated to nonviolence. For her to plan to sneak out of her family's home, dress for strenuous activity, and bring a very personal weapon to commit the crime suggests that she knew him very well, and that he had done something to make her very angry. If she wasn't involved in his personal life, let us turn to business. I understand that she didn't bank here."
         "That's right."
         "Is there any indication that she might have tried."
         "Meaning?"
         "That she may have been denied a loan or some other service prior to the crime."
         "The police asked about that, too. There was no paperwork, no application for anything. It is, of course, possible that she discussed something of the like with Robert and was told verbally not to bother, that she wouldn't qualify."
         "Would he normally handle a walk-in application like that?"
         "He could. He tended to pitch in and help if it got very busy, but normally, in order to reach his desk, it would have had to have been an appeal of an earlier refusal."
         "Unless she saw him in a social setting and just asked him on the spot."
         "And then we're back to whether she knew him. No one here ever heard him mention her."
         "Could they have been having an affair?"
         "That's quite insulting, you know." She sighed. "Anything's possible, I guess. You'd know better than I whether the police have found any evidence of that."
         "I suppose so. What about community involvement? Did Mr. Durant espouse any local causes, especially in a leadership role, that might anger a liberal or a pacifist?"
         "Quite the opposite. Mr. Durant had no high-profile public projects that you see ballyhooed on the news, but personally, he supported groups that benefited orphans, the homeless, battered women, all the causes the liberals traditionally embrace."
         "Was he a liberal himself?"
         "Mr. Durant wasn't of any one plain stripe. He firmly believed that everyone should pay their own way, but he also believed that those who were too disadvantaged to do it were deserving of help."
         "Kind of a libertarian, then?"
         "Or a philanthropist. A good man, in any case. The world doesn't have enough like Robert Durant."
         "It sounds like you admired him very much. Was there nothing to condemn him?"
         "Nothing he would have presented to Susan Darnall, if she's really the way you describe her."
         "I see. Well, I've taken up enough of your time." He stood to go.
         "I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help, Agent Kitfox."
         "That's all right. Negative information is still information. If you think of anything that might help—"
         "I'll call at once."
         He handed her his card and stepped toward the door.
         "Oh, Mr. Kitfox, there was one public project that he became very active with over the last month."
         "And that was?"
         "The PacRim Economic Conference."
         "What is that?"
         "It's a meeting of economists that's being held this coming weekend at the Monterey Marriott. Mr. Durant was instrumental in bringing it to town. The Pacific is going to be the next engine that drives the world's economy, and Robert was determined that Monterey would be a leader in that new prosperity. He envisioned an annual meeting of world economic leaders here in town at which the strengths and benefits of Monterey's assets would be underscored. This one was to be the first."
         "And it's going ahead without his leadership?"
         "Oh, yes. He wasn't the sole supporter, just the most tireless."
         "Interesting. Still, he hardly would have been killed for supporting something that would benefit the whole community."
         "Perhaps it would have harmed her employment. Nothing benefits everybody."
         "She worked in the tourism industry."
         "He husband, then?"
         "Possibly. It's certainly something to look into, anyway. Thank you for your time, Ms. Roberts, and if you think of anything else, call me at any time. That's my hotel number on the back. They'll take a message if I'm not in."

11:13 PM, Salinas

         Ikhilevich's travel clock had beeped punctually at eleven. He had turned on the news and watched graphic images of Middle East violence flood across the small screen as the talking head grimly intoned the body count and noted that the hoped-for peace settlement was all but dead. The images were of higher quality than those shown forty years ago, but the content was the same as it was then, the same as it would be forty years hence, the same as it would be forever.
         When the coverage turned to a local drug bust in Seaside, he switched off the TV and turned to his real business. After eleven; people who woke for work before sunrise should just be heading into a deeper sleep. The perfect time. Taking out an electronic organizer, he entered his password and scrolled through a list of numbers. Selecting one from among dozens, he picked up the phone and dialed it, and patiently waited out nine rings before his party answered.
         "Hullo," said the sleepy monotone.
         "Armadillo underpants swimming in a pile."
         There was a long pause, then, "Yes."
         "Have you been keeping up your exercises?"
         "Yes."
         "Then you must be beautiful. Strong women are beautiful, do you agree?"
         "Yes."
         "Can you press one hundred fifty yet?"
         "No."
         "One hundred?"
         "Yes."
         "Can you leg press three hundred?"
         "Yes."
         "That is good. Girls with strong legs get the best boyfriends. You keep working. Are you still ready to save America from those traitors who would sell her out to the Asians?"
         "Yes."
         "Good. I want you to read some books. Listen carefully. All of these books are at the library. You will read them deeply as I taught you. Do you understand?"
         "Yes."
         "Good. The first book is The Way of the Ninja by Shungo Hasekawa. The second book is No Second Place: The American Art of Knife Fighting by David Lewiston. The third book is The S.A.S. Guide to Concealment and Infiltration by Frank Stone. The last book is Basics of Sil Lum Kung Fu by Che Wang Chin. Do you remember all of these titles?"
         "Yes."
         "Good. You will pay particular attention to the following sections..."
         He went on for some time, giving detailed instructions on what he wanted his listener to gain from this reading material. At length, satisfied, he hung up and consulted his organizer again.

11:24 PM, Pacific Grove, California

         "Who the hell was that?" Sharon Ward asked, scuffling out of the bedroom and tying the belt of her robe."
         "Just a wrong number," her roommate, Kathy Benson said.
         "Wrong number? Why'd you talk so long, then?"
         "What are you talking about? Some guy asked for Michael. I told him he had a wrong number and we hung up."
         "Bullshit, Kathy! What do you think woke me up? You talked for ten minutes."
         "That's not possible!"
         "Check the clock."
         She did.
         "That must be wrong. What did I say?"
         "Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes—"
         "Okay, I get it." She picked up the phone and punched in star sixty-nine. After a moment, she put it down. "Blocked."
         "Oh, Kathy, who cares? I have to get some sleep, and unless I miss my guess, you do as well. Do us both a favor and turn the damned thing off."
         The girl turned and shuffled back toward her bedroom, rubbing her hair into a fine messy tangle.
         "I'm sorry," Kathy called after her, to be answered only with a wave. She switched off the ringer, but held the handset, looking at it, willing it to tell her what had just happened, but it remained frustratingly mute, and eventually she put it back in its cradle and headed back to bed.