Michael Prescott - Shiver

Wildman was searching the desk’s bottom drawer. Delgado heard a sharp intake of breath. “Hey, Seb, look at this.”

She pulled out a thick scrapbook and opened it. The book was crowded with newspaper and magazine clippings about the Gryphon’s murder spree. But not the Gryphon alone; the earliest articles concerned miscellaneous murders and disappearances in Idaho, and later, in the L.A. area.

“Kathy Lutton,” Delgado read aloud as Wildman flipped pages stiff with glue. “Georgia Grant. Lynn Peters. Stacy Brannon. Erin Thompson. Kelly Widmark. Carla Aguilar.”

“He did all of them,” Wildman muttered. “God damn.”

The task force had suspected that the Gryphon had been responsible for some of those killings. Some, but not all.

“He’s been a busy man,” Delgado said softly.

His fists clenched briefly, then relaxed. No time for anger now. Later.

Beneath the scrapbook was a pile of papers, Wildman sifted through them. Photo spreads torn from magazines catering to those who enjoyed violent, sadistic pornography. Crude sketches of bound women subjected to elaborate tortures. A collage of photo cutouts-the heads of fashion models and actresses, neatly scissored at the base of the neck, glued to a sheet of black construction paper.

“Jesus Christ,” she whispered, her shoulders hunching in an unconscious reaction.

Delgado let his gaze drift from the ugly images. Scanning the shelves of a bookcase, he saw titles on sculpture, criminology, and medieval torture. Among the books were copies of Bulfinch’s Mythology, The Golden Bough, and Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. The Gryphon had been a character in Alice, hadn’t he? Perhaps that was where Rood had gotten the idea.

The door of the bedroom closet had been yanked open during the initial search. Inside the closet Delgado found the mixing board Rood must have used to prepare the edited versions of the tapes. Stored with it was a collection of pop-music cassettes. Nothing else.

He left the bedroom and looked in the bathroom down the hall. The wastebasket under the sink contained evidence that Rood had bandaged his knife wound last night. That information was of no help to anyone now.

Finally Delgado found himself back in the living room with Gardner and Wildman.

“What have we learned?” he asked.

“That he’s got another place,” Wildman said immediately.

Gardner was skeptical. “How do we know that?”

“For one thing, the carpet doesn’t match the fibers found at the crime scenes. Rood must have picked up those fibers someplace else. Someplace where he spends a lot of time.”

“At work,” Gardner said with a shrug.

Wildman shook her head. “No way. An upscale department store like Crane’s wouldn’t use cheap short-nap carpeting. It’s more like something you’d find in a low-rent office-maybe someplace he’s renting.”

“And there’s another thing,” Delgado added before Gardner could reply. “Rood doesn’t keep his trophies here. Since he’s unlikely to throw them away, he must hide them at another location. A location that offers privacy-isolation or concealment.”

“That could be anywhere,” Gardner said.

Delgado sighed. “I’m afraid so.”

A rap on the open door. Robertson was back. “No luck, Seb. Car’s nowhere in sight.”

That was no surprise. Delgado hadn’t expected the Ford to be around. Presumably Rood had stored it in the alley near Sepulveda while using the stolen Dodge. Then he’d switched to the Falcon and driven Wendy to his hiding place.

He took a moment to gather his thoughts, then clapped his hands.

“All right, listen up. Donna, you’re going to Crane’s right now. Interview Mr. Khouri and all the employees who knew or worked with Franklin Rood. See if any of them ever heard Rood talk about a weekend getaway spot or a second home-anything that might give us some clue to where he’s gone.”

“I got you, Seb.”

“Tom, go to that alley where the Dodge was found. Take two officers with you. Canvass the neighborhood, find out if anyone remembers seeing the Ford Falcon leave the area sometime after nine a.m. If we know what direction he was headed in, we may be able to narrow down the search.”

Gardner nodded. “I’ll check the locations near the freeway on-ramps too. Maybe somebody saw him get on.”

“Do that. Lionel, it looks like you’re off art-store duty for good. Now you’re doing service-station duty. Make the rounds of the neighborhood gas stations and auto-repair shops. Ask the attendants and mechanics if they remember ever seeing the Ford. If any of them do, find out if the car has any identifiable features not found in the standard model-customized chrome or grillwork, dents, rust spots, special tires.”

“Maybe the sucker’s got steer horns on the hood and Old Glory flapping from the radio antenna,” Robertson said. “I sure hope so.”

“So do I.”

Delgado left two uniforms to watch the apartment in case Rood returned, then walked back to his car, rubbing his head. Tired. He was so tired.

He tried to be an optimist. The ‘63 Falcon was a distinctive automobile, far easier to spot than one of the lookalike models produced by contemporary car manufacturers. The APB could yield results. Sure it could.

But he knew there was no substance to his hopes. L.A. was a city of cars, millions of them, crowding every street and freeway. The chances of finding any one vehicle, no matter how unusual, were remote.

In his fourteen years on the force, he had faced frustration many times; it went with the job. But he could not recall ever feeling this abjectly helpless.

Despite his best efforts, the Gryphon continued to elude him; and if Wendy was still alive, whatever time she might have left was rapidly slipping away.

In a corner of the trailer, the Gryphon was pouring Pepsi-Cola into two Styrofoam cups. He was still whistling cheerily. Wendy recognized the tune. It was that old Eagles song, the one that had been such a big hit for Linda Ronstadt. “Desperado.”

Abruptly the whistling stopped. A moment later the Styrofoam cups were set down on the checkered tablecloth, followed by a handful of paper napkins and two picnic plates with sandwiches on them. Wendy tried not to look past the plates at the two jars, their contents lit by the candles’ flickering glow.

The Gryphon settled into one of the folding chairs, facing her from across the table. Candlelight shimmered on his glasses. His eyes behind the lenses, flat and dead, reminded her oddly of the eyes of the two women in the jars.

“Lunch is served,” he announced with a melodramatic flourish.

She gazed down at her sandwich. Two slices of white bread with some kind of brown goop overspilling the edges. Peanut butter, she realized. No jelly. Her eyes flicked to the cup of Pepsi. It had gone flat.

“Gee, this looks good,” she said with whatever conviction she could muster. Then she had an idea. Casually she added, “But, you know, I need my hands free in order to eat.”

He merely smiled indulgently, the smile of a sage parent who has seen through a small child’s pitifully obvious ploy.

“No, you don’t, Wendy. I’ll feed you myself.” He picked up her sandwich and raised it to her mouth. “Open wide.”

“Really, I don’t think I-”

He wedged the sandwich between her jaws, silencing her. Reluctantly she took a bite. The peanut butter tasted like glue; the untoasted bread, slightly stale, had the texture and consistency of a sheaf of newsprint. The gluey, flavorless mixture turned to papier-mache as she chewed.

“How about something to wash it down with?” he asked.

Without waiting for a reply, he lifted a cup and pressed it to her lips. Warm Pepsi flowed into her mouth. She tried to swallow, but the wet pulp of bread and peanut butter got in the way. She coughed, spitting soda on the floor.