CHAPTER 1
It was dark by the time Cathy Baker took off along the Southern California trail just outside the town of Redlands. She knew about the missing joggers. In fact, she’d been called to work one of the cases, which was why she was jogging by herself tonight, hair pulled back in a ponytail, running shoes, mace tucked into the waistband of her shorts, a survival whistle hidden inside her shirt to alert nearby backup.
She deliberately matched the victim profile.
It was called Operation Mousetrap. Not a very original name, but concise. Ten trained women from police departments around Southern California had agreed to be bait for the Inland Empire Killer. Top secret, carried out in various locations. Cathy Baker had extensive self-defense training and felt confident about being able to fight off an attacker.
Ten minutes into her jog, she spotted something on the trail. She was already tense, but now she was on high alert. She felt for the mace, pulled it out, and hid it in the palm of her hand, releasing a confused breath when she got close enough to see a crying child on the path. A little girl, barefoot, no jacket or sweater even though the night was chilly. Her auburn hair was straight and chin-length.
Cathy crouched in front of her. “Are you lost?”
The girl, who looked to be maybe five or six, sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Can you help me find my mommy?”
How had she gotten there? Had she wandered away from home?
The girl pointed away from the trail. “She went that way.”
Ah, so her mother was nearby. Relieved, Cathy stood, tucking the mace back into her waistband. Didn’t look like they would be catching the Inland Empire Killer tonight, but it was a good thing she’d been out. She hated to think of the poor kid spending the night in the dark and cold. She took the girl by the hand. “We’ll find her.”
“If we don’t, can we go to your house?”
Strange words for such a young child. “Of course. What’s your name?”
“I’m not supposed to tell.”
“Why not?” They walked deeper into the woods.
“Names aren’t part of the game, are they?”
“What game?”
“The game. The game we’re playing.”
At the child’s unsettling words, Cathy slipped her fingers back inside her waistband and felt for the mace.
From somewhere, a man’s voice shouted, “Run!”
The child ran.
Cathy was struck in the head and knocked to the ground. The container of mace fell from her hand. She rolled to her back, knees to chin, kicking hard. Blood running in her eyes, she grabbed the mace and jumped to her feet, all the while wondering where the girl had gone, trying to make sense of what was happening. Was the child part of this? Or was it just a coincidence?
She aimed the container at her assailant’s face and pressed the trigger. Nothing happened. Just a sputter.
The man knocked her down. A knife flashed and she felt red-hot pain as he sliced her throat. She made a gurgling sound, saw the blade again as his arm moved high above her head.
“Daddy, no!”
Daddy?
The man looked up, surprised. Then his weight was gone and she heard running footsteps fade.
Cathy put the whistle to her lips. No sound came out.
The child had returned and was standing nearby.
Cathy tugged hard on the whistle, breaking the chain from her neck. With one hand pressed to her bleeding throat, she held out the whistle to the little girl. The child didn’t move. Cathy urged her close, nodding and motioning for her to take it, trying not to show her own fear. The girl stepped closer. With hesitation, she took the whistle. Cathy lifted her own hand to her mouth, pursing her lips to mime a blowing action.
Not taking her eyes off Cathy, the girl slowly lifted the whistle to her mouth. Cathy nodded in encouragement.
The girl blew. Once, then again, the sound exploding, shooting up to the stars.
Cathy’s hand dropped away from her throat. She heard sirens, and at one point she opened her eyes and saw the girl standing over her. Then, like the man, the child ran off as Cathy felt her life slip away.
CHAPTER 2
Present day
Homicide detective Daniel Ellis entered San Quentin, California’s only death-row prison for male inmates. He was grateful for the shade and the blast of air-conditioning, while at the same time mentally preparing himself for what was to come. He’d been summoned (summoned was the only way to put it) by inmate Benjamin Wayne Fisher, also known as the Inland Empire Killer. It had taken Daniel eight hours to make the drive from the Homicide Department in San Bernardino to San Quentin. He was hot and traffic-weary and suspected this was just another instance of a death-row prisoner in need of company, even if that company was a cop. It happened a lot. He was going into it hoping for more but expecting nothing.
He checked in at the front desk, where he was issued a special photo ID. As he unloaded his pockets for the metal detector, then stowed his belongings including his gun in a locker, he allowed himself to fixate on the high percentage of serial killers with the middle name of Wayne. Someone had even gone to the effort of keeping a running tally, and so far there were 223 killers on the list. It was just another one of those odd things that made no sense in a sea of things that made no sense when it came to compulsion-driven killing. The phenomenon even extended to non-serial murderers. Proponents of “the Wayne Theory,” as it was known, had determined that 0.41 percent of convicted murderers had the middle name of Wayne.
A guard escorted him through a series of doors that opened via an intercom system operated by controllers who sat behind monitors in a central hub. The system had been implemented after a bloody riot in which forty-two people were injured. Now, if a guard was accosted, the doors would remain locked. All inmates knew this, but they still occasionally tried to kill someone in an attempt to escape.
In prison, surfaces reflected and magnified sound. And every face, whether prisoner or guard, reflected an acute awareness, along with a commitment to fight to the death if conflict broke out. It was a place where most people were one uninvited glance away from a meltdown, and the need for hyperawareness took a toll on guards and prisoners alike.
Prisons had a smell unlike anything Daniel had ever experienced. It was instantly recognizable; even blindfolded, he would have been able to tell he was in a prison. In this bleak ecosystem of little natural light or fresh air, beneath the canned odor of industrial cleaning products that didn’t quite cover up the scents of urine and feces, lurked the caged breath of dead men. It was like moving through the moist exhalations of infamous prisoners like the deceased Charles Manson and Sirhan Sirhan. The odor got in your clothes and hair, and Daniel fully expected it to be a part of him for the next several days.
He’d never met the Inland Empire Killer, but he probably knew more about him than anybody in the country. Daniel had been a kid when he first heard of Fisher’s crimes, but they left an imprint on him that had changed the course of his life. He’d spent much of his time at George Mason University studying the case, and he’d even written a paper on Fisher. Odd that he was the one meeting with him now. Life was strange.
He was shown into a narrow room with beige concrete-block walls and no windows, a place too bright for even the faintest shadow to live. Fisher was already there, sitting at the table. The man hadn’t aged well.