Dobbs leaned over to get a better look. Michael Kepler’s image stared back at him from the local NBC affiliate. Looked like a DMV photo. Below Kepler was the headline “Escape from LAPD?”
“Shit,” Dobbs muttered. “That didn’t take long.”
“What unit is that? Where is it?” Wilkins asked, still staring at the security monitor.
The kid didn’t answer.
“Kid! Over here. What unit?”
He reached for the phone. “I need to call my boss.”
Wilkins smacked the top of the monitor. “Where is that unit?”
Dialing, the kid nodded toward an open doorway to the right. “Follow that hall to the end, go out to the courtyard. Third row, second-to-last garage door on the left, D-forty-seven.”
Chapter Twenty
Written Statement,
Megan Fitzgerald
This is probably totally illegal. I’m not up on the latest breaking-and-entering laws, particularly when the room you’re breaking-and-entering into is in your own house. If what I share below is illegal, I plead the Fifth, or defer to my lawyer, or assert my right not to self-incriminate, or whatever. Also, this is off the record. Like the rest, I’m telling you this only to help you understand Michael’s full story. How he got from A to B to D. I can’t skip it—there’d be a gaping hole in my statement and you, being the bulldog that you are, you’d ask me about it anyway. Consider this my way of saving us that time and trouble. Not an admission of guilt. Now that I think about it, I don’t think what I did would be illegal, anyway. At worst, it might subject me to a solid grounding. Dr. Rose and Dr. Bart were never shy about doling out punishments. You’ll see that soon enough. Back to it, then—
The two of them shared a two-room office near the back of the northeast corner on the first floor of the science building. Rather than separate offices, they opted to set up facing desks in one and a couch and a chair in the other in order to create a private space for their sessions with patients.
I arrived at the science building about a minute before noon and slowly navigated the hallways. Dr. Rose had said her appointments were at noon and one p.m.
As I rounded the corner and her office came into view, I moved even slower, on the tips of my toes, holding my backpack at my side. The glass door was closed. The door to the secondary office was closed too, the blinds drawn. She would be inside with her first patient.
Dr. Rose’s purse was on her desk. Dr. Bart rarely kept more on top of his desk than an old landline phone and a white coffee mug filled with pens. The phone was still there, but the pens were gone. His collection of framed degrees was gone from the wall too. There were no boxes. I wondered what she’d done with everything.
I opened Dr. Rose’s door slowly. It squeaks if you open it too fast. I’d learned the sweet spot between fast and slow the first time I’d snuck in. Behind me, in the secondary office, I heard Dr. Rose’s muffled voice followed by some girl’s.
I tugged open the purse’s zipper just far enough so I could reach inside for her keys.
I nearly dropped them when my phone vibrated in the back pocket of my jeans. I snatched it with my free hand and hit Decline before it could vibrate again.
Michael.
I quickly texted, Can’t talk.
His response came a moment later. Did you get into his office?
Working on it. Where r u?
Warehouse.
I thumbed out, Call later, and put the phone back in my pocket.
I set Dr. Rose’s keys on the desk and reached down into my backpack. I took out a lighter, a roll of clear packing tape, scissors, my old bank debit card, and a pair of tweezers.
Dr. Rose kept about a dozen keys on her ring—keys for the house, the university, and her various vehicles. She would never keep an outdated key. Each served a purpose. The dead bolt on Dr. Bart’s office was a Medeco. I remember sounding out the word as a kid, reading it in the polished silver from the hallway outside his office as his deep bass voice resonated inside, the occasional reply from one of his many patients filling the space between.
Dr. Rose had one Medeco key, the only key on her ring with a square head. I held my breath, pried open the ring with my thumbnail, and slid the key off, doing my best not to jingle the others. I set it on the desk.
With the scissors, I cut a piece of the packing tape equal to the length of the key and placed that on the desk too, sticky-side up. Using the tweezers, I gripped the edge of the key.
When I flicked the lighter, nothing happened.
I flicked the small wheel again. The flint sparked, but no flame. I cursed myself for not buying a new one. The lighter finally came to life on my third attempt, and I quickly ran it along the side of the key until the metal was black with soot.
I killed the flame, waited a moment, then pressed the key into the sticky packing tape. When I pulled the key away, much of the soot remained on the tape—a perfect duplicate. I carefully applied the tape to my debit card, preserving the image.
In the room behind me, I heard a girl laugh, then Dr. Rose’s voice. I couldn’t make out the words.
I wiped the remaining soot from the key on my jeans and put the key back on Dr. Rose’s ring. Returned the ring to her purse. Slipped the items I’d brought with me back in my pack and left the office.
Four minutes total, my best time yet.
What’s your best time, Jessica? Do they teach this sort of thing in the FBI? I bet you cheat and use one of those automated lockpicks. They’re called snap guns, right? You’ll need to get me one of those. The holidays are coming up—it’s never too early to start buying those stocking stuffers.
Chapter Twenty-One
Dobbs
Dobbs called for backup as he ran, barking orders into his phone. He pushed out through the glass door at the end of the hall into the courtyard, drew his weapon, and got his bearings.
The courtyard was larger than it appeared from the outside. Three long rows of garages stood in the center, the building on one side and a tall cinder-block wall on the three others. Arrows painted on the blacktop indicated the flow of vehicular traffic. Signs identified rows A through D, D being the last.
Wilkins shielded his eyes with one hand, held his gun in the other. “You go in from this side, I’ll circle around to his row from the far end, and we’ll box him in.”
Dobbs nodded, ran past the first two rows, and rounded the corner at D in a low crouch. Wilkins came around the opposite end, his gun pointed at the blacktop.
The row was deserted. Kepler was gone.
Dobbs knew the moment he saw the combination lock secured on the bottom right of the garage door.
Wilkins turned in a slow circle. “He can’t be far.”
“Get back to the main entrance, wait for backup, then comb everything—every inch. I’ll—” Dobbs’s phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number. “This is Dobbs.”
A female voice, slight Southern accent. “Detective, this is Special Agent Jessica Gimble with the FBI. I need you to listen to me carefully. I believe the suspect you have in custody might be responsible for multiple homicides in at least ten states. He is to be considered extremely dangerous. I’ve got marshals en route. They’re about twenty minutes out from LAPD headquarters.”