Chapter 19
ON A SCREEN in the private office of the Honorable Diane Wills, mayor of Los Angeles, the killer rose from a squatting position in front of Sheila Vicente, his back to the camera as he exited the pharmacy.
In a voice oddly composed given the traumatic experience she’d suffered not two and a half hours before, Sheila Vicente said, “He was humming that old Doors song before he saw me and Enrique. He was humming it as he left.” She shifted in her chair, started to weep.
Mayor Wills went to console her while a handful of L.A.’s other high-and-mighty looked on. L.A. Police Chief Mickey Fescoe, L.A. County Sheriff Lou Cammarata, L.A. District Attorney Billy Blaze.
Del Rio and I had come off the helicopter twenty minutes before. We’d flown down from Ojai with the Harlows’ management team and the help, leaving Justine, Sci, and Mo-bot to continue the search, at least until dark.
For the life of me I couldn’t figure out what their angle was, calling us in on a missing persons case, then not taking our advice to bring in the FBI. But I had had little chance to think about that.
The entire flight down we’d watched the news coverage of the shootings at the pharmacy on La Cienega. Local news interviewed a teenager who’d been inside during the killings, shopping for nail polish.
“It was creepy,” the teen said, beginning to choke. “I never heard a thing until one of the clerks started screaming bloody murder, like Cabin in the Woods or something.”
But that and the body count was about all we knew until we got to the mayor’s office, watched the raw footage of the killing spree, and heard Sheila Vicente describe the killer humming as he left.
“ ‘Peace Frog,’ ” Del Rio said. “That was the song?”
Vicente had composed herself again. She nodded at Del Rio. “You know—‘Blood in the streets, it’s up to my ankles’?”
“‘Bloody red sun of Phantastic L.A.,’ ” Del Rio replied.
“You were supposed to give a message to the mayor, is that right?” Chief Fescoe said.
Ruddy coarse skin, early fifties, Fescoe is as smart as any man I know, also one of the most cunning. He’s a good cop. He’s a better politician. Which was what had puzzled me about the killings. Why were we here? Why had Del Rio and I been allowed to see the raw footage?
“Yes, and only to the mayor,” Vicente said, looking to Wills, a tall, formidable, red-haired woman who long ago played volleyball at UCLA and graduated first in her class at Stanford Law.
“What is it, dear?” Mayor Wills asked.
Sheila Vicente reached into her purse and with trembling hands drew out a Baggie. I could see there was something inside it but couldn’t tell much more. The assistant district attorney started to hand the Baggie to the mayor, but Chief Fescoe was quicker and blocked the transfer.
“Lay it on the desk,” he said. “No more fingerprints.”
“He wore gloves, flesh-colored thin gloves,” Vicente said.
I crossed the room to the desk, saw the lime-green card in the Baggie, and saw the printing: NO PRISONERS.
Four yesterday. Five today. He’s on an escalating spree. Those were my first thoughts. I said, “Captain Harry Thomas with sheriff’s homicide has a card just like this, taken in evidence at the Malibu Beach killings last night.”
Sheriff Cammarata scowled but said, “That’s true.”
Sheila Vicente said, “Mayor, he told me to tell you that unless you comply with his demands there will be no mercy after this. None.”
“What demands?” Mayor Wills said. “I haven’t heard any demands.”
There was a silence for a beat, broken by Chief Fescoe, who paled considerably before saying, “I have. In letters yesterday and today, and then again on video two hours ago.”
“What?” cried Blaze, the district attorney.
“And you told no one?” demanded Sheriff Cammarata.
Fescoe bristled. “At first we thought it was just some nut job writing crazy letters. We had no word that you found that calling card at Malibu last night. Until the killings at the CVS, we had nothing to say the threats were real.”
“What threats and what video?” Del Rio asked.
Fescoe nodded to his assistant. “The ones we got two hours ago.”
The assistant tapped an order into a laptop computer. YouTube appeared on the big screen. The featured video on the page was entitled
NO PRISONERS: FACES OF WAR L.A.
“Play it,” Fescoe said.
The slayings on the beach were ruthless, precise, and shot from the killer’s perspective. The camera work seemed remarkably smooth given the brutality of the action. The only parts of the killer you saw, however, were the gloves and the guns.
After the last man fell dead, a warning appeared:
IF YOU DO NOT COMPLY
MANY MORE WILL DIE.
NO ONE IS SAFE. NO ONE
“Hundred and twenty-five thousand hits,” Del Rio said, tearing me from thoughts of being under the tarps the night before, looking at the burned bodies of the four men I’d just seen executed on video.
“Comply?” the mayor said. “Comply with what?”
Fescoe paled again, swallowed, and said, “He wants money to stop the killings. Lots of money.”