Stephen Cannell - Vigilante

I found the designation in a large section on severe psychotic disorders. I skipped down past delusional paranoid psychosis and sexual sadism and began to read. The further I went, the more certain I was that Nixon Nash fit the category of a pure psychopath almost perfectly. He was cunning and manipulative, narcissistic and a user.

The DSM-IV said that pure psychopaths are completely lacking in remorse or empathy. This was certainly the quality that would have allowed Nix to so easily order Lee Bob Batiste to kill Lita Mendez, a person Nix claimed to have an abiding friendship with.

The DSM-IV went on to say that the symptoms of psychopathic personality disorder can set in as early as age three or four but are rarely diagnosed until fourteen or fifteen. I made another note to call Miami and check into the reason Nix had not been allowed to join the Metro-Dade Police Department, where the rest of his family served. I began to wonder if the medical issues that had barred him from the department were mental instead of physical. Had the more in-depth psychological testing required by the Dade County police turned up his deviant personality? Was that why he had joined the FMP instead?

The chapter continued listing elements of psychotic personality disorder. Psychopaths tended to have white-collar jobs and generally didn’t resort to committing crimes in order to survive, choosing that course only when a huge reward justified the risk. They were frequently articulate, charming, and charismatic. All classifications that pretty much fit Nix Nash. According to the DSM, the thing that most motivates a psychopath appears to be a love of control and power. They are masters at reading and exploiting other people’s vulnerabilities. Psychopaths’ primary weakness tends to be egotism.

Nix had scrupulously planned the killing along with his alibi and, being an extreme egoist, believed he could get away with almost anything. This prevailing weakness was leading him closer and closer to the edge.

As I sat back to think it over, I realized it was almost six o’clock. I’d been at this for over an hour.

Then the phone rang. I reached over and picked it up.

“Yeah?”

“Shane, I need your help,” a woman’s tense voice whispered. She sounded terrified.

“Marcia?”

“Yes. Listen. He-Nix-he, he’s out here,” she sputtered breathlessly. “I can’t go home. I-”

“Calm down, Marcia. Where are you?”

“He’s gonna kill me.”

“Where are you?” I demanded again, sharply.

“I’m parked up the block from my apartment. I’m afraid to go in there. He knows I found out what he’s doing. I think he could be-” She stopped, then said, “I don’t know where he is, but when he gets like this he-”

“Marcia, I need an address.”

“Two-Three-Five-Eight Ocean Way in the hills above Malibu. It’s just off the Coast Highway. I’m in my car parked up the street. He’s crazy, Shane.”

“What kind of car are you driving?”

“It’s a white Cadillac convertible with the top up. I’ll tell you exactly how he keeps doing this, how he solves these cases, but you’ve got to come now. Only you, nobody else! I can’t trust anybody. You’ve got to promise you’ll protect me!”

“I’m on my way. It’s gonna take me twenty minutes. Can you stay safe until then?”

“I think so. I’ll try.”

I hung up, and as I ran through the pantry grabbed a hammer out of a drawer before I continued out back to my car. I got inside and used the tool to knock the rearview mirror off the Acura. I threw the mirror out of the window and into a box next to the driveway. I started the car and pulled out.

I’d be lucky if I could make it in twenty minutes. It would all depend on traffic. I tromped on the accelerator and peeled out, speeding down the alley. As soon as I hung a left on Abbot Kinney Boulevard I could see that the street was hopelessly clogged with 6:00 P.M. traffic.

You aren’t supposed to go Code Three without getting permission from the Communications Division first.

Fuck it, I thought, and flipped on my red lights and siren.

As soon as I got on the Pacific Coast Highway, I shut down my emergency package but hauled ass, using my horn to get around slower traffic. I wrestled with a tactical dilemma as I drove. Despite Marcia’s demand that I come alone, it definitely presented a risk. I didn’t know if I could trust her or whether she was setting up a trap. Correct police procedure demanded that I call in and get backup and I was about to do that, but my instincts told me it might not be the right move.

Jurisdictionally, the address in Malibu was in the county, which meant calling in the sheriff.

Marcia Breen sounded panicked. Supposing for the moment she was on the level and Nix was lurking around out by her apartment trying to get his hands on her, then bringing in a bunch of Malibu uniforms in black and whites could spook Nash before I got a chance to scope it out. If Marcia really had solid information that could prove Nash’s guilt and could make a statement tying him to Lita’s murder, then my case was made. But that still didn’t put him in custody. The last thing I wanted was to bust the pinata and not get any candy. In addition, if I showed up with a bunch of cops how would that affect Marcia, who had insisted I come alone?

Part of this thinking, I will admit, is produced by my natural tendency toward lone-wolfing. I’ve been in situations before where I’ve specifically asked a sister agency for covert backup only to get surprised by ten fully lit black and whites boiling in looking like a presidential motorcade. I decided the better option was to wait till I got to Ocean Way and then check out the neighborhood, looking for Marcia’s white Cad. I’d get her into protective custody, debrief her, and then decide what the next step should be.

It took me over half an hour to get to Ocean Way, which turned out to be a tree-lined canyon street up in the Malibu hills above the PCH. I found her apartment building at 2358 and slow-rolled the address. The development was a beautiful tile-roofed, Spanish-style structure built into the canyon hills. The units looked large and each had a balcony that faced down the canyon toward the ocean.

I drove the narrow street, looking for Marcia’s car. I finally saw her white Cadillac Eldorado with the top up parked a block up from her apartment complex on the right. I drove slowly past but could see nobody in the car. Maybe she had ducked down when she saw my headlights.

I hung a U and came up behind the Cad, parking in a slot two down from her. I pulled out my Springfield XD(M), took the safety off, and chambered up a round. Then I held it surreptitiously down by my right leg as I got out of the Acura, stood beside my car, and made a careful visual sweep of the street. Nobody seemed to be around. It was still early, only a quarter to seven. There was occasional drive-by traffic, residents heading home after work. I walked up to the Cadillac and looked inside.

Empty.

I tried the door and found it unlocked, leaned in, and popped the trunk. Then I walked back to check inside.

Spare tire and jack.

I took another careful look up and down the street, checking behind me. I didn’t want to get surprised, but the whole area seemed quiet. Nobody on any of the balconies or between the houses across the street.

I was just getting set to close the trunk when I heard a strange sound. It started as a faint whir but scant seconds later intensified like the buzzing of a large flying beetle. Then it hit the right side of my chest. Sudden intense pain followed.

I looked down and, to my horror, saw that a large red dart was sticking out of my shirt, just above the right nipple.