Jeffery Deaver - The Devil's Teardrop

It was the MCP. The mobile command post. And it was plastered with bumper stickers: NORTH CAROLINA AKC DOG SHOW. WARNING: I BRAKE FOR BLUE RIBBONS. BRIARDS ARE OUR BUSINESS.

He wondered whether the stickers were intentional-to fool perps-or if the Bureau had bought the van secondhand from a real breeder.

The camper eased up to the curb and Lukas motioned Cage and Parker inside. One whiff of the air told him that it had belonged to dog owners. Still, it was warm inside-with the cold and the scare from the private eye Parker was shivering hard and he was glad to be out of the chill.

Sitting at a computer console was Tobe Geller. He was staring at a video monitor. The image on the screen was broken into a thousand square pixels, an abstract mosaic. He tapped buttons, spun the trackball on his computer, typed in commands.

Detective Len Hardy sat nearby and C. P. Ardell, in his size 44 jeans, was wedged into one of the booths against the wall. The psychologist from Georgetown University hadn't yet arrived.

"The video from the Mason Theater shooting," Geller said, not looking away from the screen.

"Anything helpful?" Lukas asked.

"Nuthin' much," the young agent muttered. "Not yet anyway. Here's what it looks like full screen, real time."

He hit some buttons and the image shrank, became discernible. It was a dim view of the interior of the theater, very jumbled and blurry. People were running and diving for cover.

"When the Digger started shooting," C. P. explained, "some tourist in the audience turned on his camcorder."

Geller typed more and the image grew slightly clearer. Then he froze the tape.

"There?" Cage asked, touching the screen. "That's him?"

"Yep," Geller said. He started the tape again, running it in slow motion.

Parker could see virtually nothing distinct. The scene was dark to begin with and the camera had bobbed around when the videotaper had huddled for cover. As the frames flipped past, in slow motion, faint light from the gun blossomed in the middle of the smudge that Geller had identified as the Digger.

Hardy said, "It's almost scarier, not exactly seeing what's going on."

Parker silently agreed with him. Lukas, leaning forward, stared intently at the screen.

Geller continued. "Now, this ones about the clearest." The frame froze. The image zoomed in but as the pixel squares grew larger they lost all definition. Soon the scene was just a hodgepodge of light and dark squares. "I've been trying to enhance it to see his face. I'm ninety percent sure he's white. But that's about all we can say."

Parker had seen something. "Back out again," he said. "Slowly."

As Geller pushed buttons the squares grew smaller, began to coalesce.

"Stop," Parker ordered.

The image was of the Digger from the chest up.

"Look at that."

"At what?" Lukas asked.

"I don't see anything," Hardy said, squinting.

Parker tapped the screen. In the center of what was probably the Diggers chest were some bright pixels, surrounded by slightly darker ones in a V-shape, which were in turn surrounded by very dark ones.

"It's just a reflection," Lukas muttered, distracted and impatient. She looked at her watch.

Parker persisted. "But what's the light reflecting off of?"

They stared for a moment. Then: "Ha," Geller said, his handsome face breaking into a grin. "Think I've got it."

"What, Tobe?" Parker asked.

"Aren't you a good Catholic, Parker?"

"Not me." He was a lapsed Presbyterian who found the theology of Star Wars more palatable than most religions.

"I went to a Jesuit school," Hardy said. "If that helps."

But Geller wasn't interested in anyone's spiritual history. He pushed himself across the tiny space in his wheeled office chair. "Let's try this." He opened a drawer and took out a small digital camera, handed it to Parker. He plugged it into a computer. He then bent a paper clip into the shape of an X, unhooked two buttons of his shirt and held the clip against his chest. "Shoot me," he said. "Just push that button."

Parker did and handed the camera back. Geller turned to the computer, typed and a dark image of the young agent came up on the screen. "Handsome fella," said Geller. He hit more buttons, keeping the bright silver of the paperclip in the center of the screen as he zoomed in. The image disappeared into exactly the same arrangement of bright squares as in the picture of the Digger.

"Only difference," Geller pointed out, "is that his has a yellowish tint. So our boys wearing a gold crucifix."

"Add that to our description of the shooter, send it out," Lukas ordered. "And tell them we've confirmed he's white." Cage radioed Jerry Baker with the information and told him to pass the word to the canvassers.

The Diggers only identifying characteristic-that he wore a cross.

Was he religious?

Was it a good-luck charm?

Or had he ripped it from the body of one of his victims as a trophy?

Cage's phone rang. He listened. Hung up. Shrugged, discouraged. "My contact at the FAA. They've called all the fixed-base operators in the area about chopper rentals. Man fitting the description of the unsub contracted to charter a helicopter from a company in Clinton, Maryland. Gave his name as Gilbert Jones."

"Jones?" C. P. asked sarcastically. "I mean, shit, that's original."

Cage continued. "He paid cash. The pilot was supposed to pick up some cargo in Fairfax then there'd be another hour leg of the flight but Jones didn't tell him where. Was supposed to call instructions in to the pilot at ten-thirty this morning. But he never did. The pilot checks out okay."

"Did Jones give him an address or phone number?"

Cage's shrug said, He did but they were both fake.

The door opened and a man in an FBI windbreaker nodded to Lukas.

"Hi, Steve," she said.

"Agent Lukas. I've got Dr. Evans here. From Georgetown."

The psychologist.

The man stepped inside. "Evening," he said. "I'm John Evans." He was shorter than his calm, deep voice suggested. His dark hair was shot with gray and he had a trim beard. Parker liked him immediately. He wore a smile as easy as his old chinos and gray cardigan sweater and he carried a heavy, battered backpack instead of a briefcase. His eyes were very quick and he examined everyone in the camper carefully before he was halfway through the door.

"Appreciate your coming down," Lukas said to him. "This is Agent Cage and Agent Geller. Agent Ardell's over there. Detective Hardy. My name's Lukas." She glanced at Parker, who nodded his okay to mention his real name. "And this's Parker Kincaid-he's a document expert used to work for the Bureau." She added, "He's here confidentially and we'd appreciate your not mentioning his involvement."

"I understand," Evans said. "I do a lot of anonymous work too. I was going to put up a Web site but I figured I'd get too many cranks." He sat down. "I heard about the incident at the Mason Theater. What exactly's going on?"

Cage ran through a summary of the shootings, the death of the unsub, the extortion note and the killer.

Evans looked at the death mask picture of the unsub. "So you're trying to figure out where his partner's going to hit next."

"Exactly," Lukas said. "All we need is fifteen minutes and we can get a tactical team on the premises to take him out. But we need that fifteen minutes. We've got to get a leg up here."

Parker asked, "You've heard the name before? 'The Digger'?"

"I have a pretty big criminal data archive. When I heard about the case I did a search. There was a man in California in the fifties. Murdered four migrants. His nickname was the Gravedigger. He was killed in prison a few months after he went inside. Obispo Men's Colony. Wasn't part of a cult or anything like that. Now, some members of an acting troupe called the Diggers in San Francisco in the sixties were regularly arrested for petty larceny-basically just shoplifting. Nothing serious. Then there was a motorcycle gang in Scottsdale called the Gravediggers. They were involved in a number of felonious assaults. But they disbanded in the mid-seventies and I don't have any record of any of the individual bikers."