Stephen Cannell - Final Victim

"You're gonna move me? I feel like hell. I can't even sit up."

"I got chummy with the surgical nurse. She said the surgery was a success. They have you scheduled for X-rays tomorrow at ten to check their work. The big danger for you now is peritonitis, 'cause your intestine got ruptured. They've been pumping you full of vancomycin. But they're slacking off now. If you start running a fever, I'll bring you back. Another thing… that Fed out there isn't gonna let you get your hands on a computer, and I need you to help me get The Rat."

"Am I the Lone Ranger or Tonto?" he said softly.

"You're Snoopy, remember?" She smiled at him and took his hand. "They say they're gonna keep you in here for another three days. According to the nurse, all they're gonna do is watch you, take your temperature. I can do that… and remember, Mal, in three days, you're on your way back to Lompoc." She knew he would do anything to avoid that.

"I'm a Federal prner," he said softly. "You bust me outta here and you're gonna be guilty of conspiracy, and aiding and abetting. Both felonies. You could get five years yourself."

"I don't want to go to jail… but in case you haven't noticed, I can handle risks. And I've developed an affection for you, so shut up." He smiled at her, and she reddened slightly and rushed on: "I also think The Rat is about to go hot again. It's been two weeks since Candice Wilcox died. I don't want another woman killed and mutilated. We said we were gonna get him for what he did to Claire. I haven't changed my mind; I hope you haven't."

Malavida finally nodded. "Okay, you're on."

"I've been working at the library all afternoon. I found some pretty interesting stuff in the newspaper morgue."

"Like what?"

"The woman you saw in the barge, the blowup taped on the wall with the markings and dates on it…?"

"Yeah?"

Karen dug into her purse and pulled out a Xerox of an old Tampa Tribune newspaper article she had found at the Miami Public Library that afternoon. "Was this her?" she asked and held up the picture.

Malavida was looking at a shot of the same woman he'd seen on the wall of the barge. "It's her… Who is she?" Malavida finally said.

"Meet Shirley Land, Leonard's foster mother. That's the obit photo. She died in a fire twelve years ago. Shirley had quite a history. She was a seventies hippie who turned away from sex and drugs, and found religion. According to this, she was a Seventh Day Adventist, but the church in Water Valley, Mississippi, where she lived, threw her out for bizarre behavior. Apparently she was religiously obsessed. She had a foster child in 1980 named Robbie Land. I checked with Social Services in Water Valley, and their records said they'd been out there a bunch of times 'cause Robbie's grade-school teachers said he looked beaten up. One time, when he was twelve, his hair got set on fire. Shirley said he'd done it himself, playing with matches. Social Services was getting set to take him back when Robbie ran away, never to be seen again. Shirley took off and left the state. My guess is Robbie is dead, buried in a shallow grave somewhere. Shirley moved to Florida and applied for and got another foster child. That was Leonard Land. Nobody checked with Mississippi, 'cause she never told 'em she was from there. She bought a house out in the boonies not too far from the Everglades. There were no Social Services complaints on Leonard's condition. Then, twelve years ago, her house caught fire and she died. Leonard disappeared, end of report," she said. "Not too hard to read between the lines, is it?"

"That's pretty good." He smiled weakly.

"It all fits the profile of a killer dominated by a violent female adult. The blitz attacks are because he's afraid of women, he needs to kill them before they have a chance to dominate him. His 'relationships' are all post-mortem. He probably feels he can only interact with women once they're dead."

"Did you call Lockwood with this?"

"I'm gonna get in touch after his hearing tomorrow," she told him. "You didn't call him because he'll put the kibosh on this nutty idea of breaking me out of here, right?"

She started to smile and he smiled back.

"How you gonna do it?"

She sat next to his bed and filled him in.

At 8:30 that night, Karen pulled off her first computer crime. She was sitting on the bed at the Ramada Inn, talking with Malavida in the hospital on her cellphone. With the hard line from the Ramada phone, she had hooked up Malavida's computer and modem. Malavida talked her through a computer crack into Jackson Memorial Hospital. It was harder than they had anticipated because the hospital administrator had already started to upgrade his security. Malavida finally found a hole in the system, going in through the Payless drugstore in the hospital lobby. The drugstore had a link that interfaced with the hospital billing records. He used that to move into the Jackson Memorial computer network and, before long, he talked Karen right into the Patient Records Log. She found Ray Gonzales's ID number and deleted it, then put Malavida's ID number in its place. She found Malavida's account, deleted his number, and supplanted it with Ray's, completing the switch. She then found Ray Gonzales's medical record… It was extensive. She scanned it, feeling guilty as she snooped. Ray's prognosis wasn't good. He was going to need a kidney transplant soon. Then she skipped to the bottom of Ray's records and started typing. She scheduled him for an X-ray at ten the next morning.

Karen was dressed and checked out of the Ramada Inn by 6:30 A. M. She had rented a Ryder van and was now driving around looking for a motel room that would work. The early morning traffic was surprisingly light. Beautiful white clouds drifted like whipped cream across the blue Miami sky.

She finally found a place that looked good. It was called The Swallow Inn and was on the Miami River, of Fourth Street, two blocks from Highway 9. She drove around it once, looking it over. It was an old wood-frame bungalow-style motel. The bungalows were private, set away from one another. She needed privacy. She decided the best unit for her needs was Bungalow 7. It was well away from the others and close to the service road, which would give her a back way in and out. She parked the step van on the shell drive and walked across the crunchy surface to the office.

A room cost nineteen dollars a day. She asked for Number 7 and got it. She registered under an assumed name, Karen Styles, and paid cash. She took her key, stepped back outside, and looked around.

She knew from the map that the Miami River went inland for about three miles, then became so narrow and marshy it was more of a swamp than a river. The wide mouth of the river was in Biscayne Bay. The river was like no place else in Miami. It could have been in a third-world country. She glanced at two Haitian freighters that were tied to wharves across the river. They were big, ugly, rusting hulks piled high with junk that would eventually be bound for Haiti. A favorite item seemed to be plastic Clorox bottles. They were strung by the hundreds on ropes and draped along every convenient rail. She couldn't imagine what they would be used for. To carry water maybe? The freighters were also stacked high with old mattresses, broken furniture, and stolen bicycles.

She could smell the thick, pungent odor of moss and drying seaweed. Still, this was not a place where neighbors talked to the cops, or where she thought anybody was going to look for Malavida.

She went to Bungalow 7. It had once been bright blue, but now the paint was faded and eaten by the sun. She opened the door and went inside. The two small rooms were clean but musty. She opened a window to air it out, then checked the TV to make sure it worked. She picked up the telephone and found that it was a direct line out. Then she locked up and left. She had one more stop to make at the hospital. She had volunteered to be a candy-striper and needed to pick up her uniform.