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“Listen, sir,” the dispatcher asked, “are you able to hear what’s going on as I’m talking to you?”
“What I can hear,” he said, “is some spook getting the living shit beat out of her.”
The dispatcher hesitated. “Yes, sir. Can you determine if there’s been any physical injury so far?”
“I’m no doctor, lady, I’m just trying to do the right thing. Just send someone!”
“Okay, Mr. Reffon, I’m calling a patrol car now. What I want you to do is exit the building and wait for the officers. They’re on the way.”
“You better move quick,” the killer said. “Sounds like someone’s about to get hurt.”
After the transmission ended, there was the follow-up recording of the outgoing dispatch call.
“The call came from a mobile phone,” Lila said, shrugging her broad shoulders. “No doubt cloned. Here, it’s starting up again on a three-cycle loop.” In a moment the tape came on a second time. This time, I listened closely for what the voice could tell me.
I need to call in a disturbance…. It was a worried voice, panicked but cool.
“The guy’s a good fucking actor,” Jacobi huffed.
My name’s Billy. Billy Reffon….
I clenched the edges of my wooden chair as I listened to the dispatcher’s well-intended instructions. “Exit the building and wait for the officers. They’re on the way.” All the while, he was sitting behind a rifle scope, waiting for his prey to show up.
You better move quick, he said. Someone’s about to get hurt.
We listened to the recording one more time.
This time, I heard the mocking indifference in his voice. Not even the slightest tone of compunction for what he was about to do. In the last warning, I even detected a hint of a cold chuckle: Quick… Someone’s about to get hurt.
“That’s all I have,” Lila McKendree said. “The killer’s voice.”
Chapter 35
THE DAVIDSON MURDER changed everything.
A bold headline in the Chronicle shouted, “MURDERED COP THOUGHT TO BE THIRD IN TERROR SPREE.” The front-page article, with Cindy’s byline, cited the accurate, long-range rifle shots and also the symbol used by active hate groups that had been found at the scenes.
I headed down to the CSU lab and found Charlie Clapper curled up behind a metal desk, wearing a lab coat, munching on a breakfast of Doritos chips. His salt-and-pepper hair was oily and tousled, and his eyes sagged like heavy bags. “I’ve slept at this desk twice this week.” He scowled. “Doesn’t anyone get killed during the day anymore?”
“In case you didn’t notice, I haven’t been getting my normal beauty rest the last week either.” I shrugged. “C’mon, Charlie, I need something on this Davidson thing. He’s killing our own guys.”
“I know he is.” The rotund CSU man sighed. He hoisted himself up and shuffled over to a counter. He picked up a small zip-lock sandwich bag with a dark, flattened bullet in it.
“Here’s your slug, Lindsay. Took it out of the wall behind where Art Davidson got dropped. One shot. Lights out. Check with Claire if you like. The sonofabitch can definitely shoot.”
I lifted up the shell and tried to pull a reading.
“Forty caliber,” Clapper said. “My first read is that it’s from a PSG-One.”
I frowned. “You’re sure about this, Charlie?” Tasha Catchings had been killed with an M16.
He pointed toward a scope. “Be my guest, Lieutenant. I figure ballistics must be a lifelong study of yours.”
“I didn’t mean that, Charlie. I was just hoping for a match on the Catchings girl.”
“Reese is still working on it,” he said, grabbing a chip out of the Doritos bag. “But don’t bet on it. This guy was clean, Lindsay. Just like at the church. No prints, nothing left behind. The tape machine’s standard, could’ve been bought anywhere. Set off by a long-distance remote control. We even traced what we thought to be his route up there through the building and dusted everything from the railings to the window locks. We did turn up one thing….”
“What’s that?” I pressed.
