Broken English

CHAPTER 1: WEDNESDAY

8:47 AM, San Francisco, California

         FBI Special Agent Leon Kitfox placed his coffee on one of the few flat surfaces to be found on his littered desk and sat down before the mountain of work. He was a strong man, both physically and mentally, and committed to his work as necessary and meaningful. Picking up the coffee, he studied the folders strewn around his workspace and waited for the day's inspiration.
         There was the murder of a police officer in Watsonville awaiting his attention, and the corruption of a detective over in Napa County. There was an information request from Alameda that would take up half his day, or he could work on his liaison with the Portland Sheriff's Office, who swore the Marin County Mangler had moved into their jurisdiction and set up shop. Somewhere in the midst of that, he had to attend one of three refreshers being given in search and seizure restrictions.
         "Leon!"
         Kitfox stood up and looked in the direction of the summons. His boss, Harvey Dixon, stood outside his glass-walled office and waved him over the moment their eyes met.
         "Or I could do something else," Kitfox muttered, walking between the cubicles.
         "Sit down," Dixon instructed. No greeting, no fanfare, just business. "I've got a little job for you."
         "I'm pretty backed up, sir."
         "Who isn't? I need you to nip down to Monterey. The cops down there have a murder on their hands. Some bank president or something, mid-fifties, ambushed in a parking lot and stabbed, they think thirty-four times, mostly in the chest. No robbery was committed, and nothing sexual, nor anything that looks ritual. Just a stabbing spree."
         "And we have involvement?"
         "That's for you to find out. Ten days ago, the cops in Reno found a college professor out behind one of the casinos. He'd been bludgeoned to death with an aluminum baseball bat. They estimate over fifty blows to the head. Had to identify him with fingerprints. Again, no robbery nor any other tampering with the body."
         "Different murder weapon, though."
         "That doesn't rule out a connection. Monterey has a suspect. Because of the time factor, the similarity in overkill, and the condition of the victims, there's a possibility these two crimes could be connected. Here's the Reno file. Skim this over while you finish your coffee then get on down to Monterey. Take the file with you and make your best estimate on whether it's the same perp."
         "And if it is?"
         "If it is, they've already caught the guy. Offer them crime lab assistance and get on back here. If it isn't, obviously we have no jurisdiction, so get back here without the offer. Either way, it should almost be a day off for you."
         "Thanks a lot, boss. I don't suppose you'd agree to not put anything on my desk while I'm gone?"
         "Oh, Leon, leave the comedy to the professionals." They stood up together and Dixon opened the door. Kitfox stepped out and almost collided with Kevin Kreiger, the Special Agent in Charge.
         "Well, Special Agent Kitfox."
         "Top of the morning, sir."
         "I understand you're going to Monterey."
         "Yes, sir."
         "Let me give you a tip that will ease your path."
         "Sir?"
         "They have a suspect down there. This suspect was apprehended with the murder weapon in hand and covered with the victim's blood. This suspect is a living, breathing human being with a long medical history to prove it. This suspect either did the Reno murder or not. It's a simple yes or no proposition. I don't expect to hear that you've taken this office on some half-assed fishing expedition. You just file your report and get back here. Do I make myself clear?"
         "As always, sir."
         Kreiger looked him up and down and said, "Are you still here?"
         "No, sir," Kitfox said, and hurried off toward his desk.

12:31 PM, Monterey

         Kitfox liked Monterey on first sight. It's clean, new appearance had a freshness that San Francisco's skyscrapers couldn't bring off, and like so many visitors before him, his mind began to formulate scenarios that would allow him to live here permanently. The police station was strategically placed so as to remain unobtrusive to the tourists yet be in easy reach if needed. Its newness had worn off, but it managed somehow to avoid the stark institutional feel of the fortified prisons he had visited up and down the coast.
         Checking in at the desk and stating his business, Kitfox was informed that Detective Lieutenant Zamora was handling the case and, to his great good fortune, she was in. He was ushered to an office made of partitions and occupied by a desk, two chairs, and a small Latina of indeterminate age who waved him to the other chair as she talked on the phone to someone she didn't seem to care for.
         "I don't care, Louie... We all have... Louie, God damn it, listen to me. I'm in court tomorrow with this. If I don't have these results, the case goes out the window, and it'll be your ass, I'll see to it... Don't make me come down there... Oh, same to you!" She slammed the phone down and picked up a sandwich with two bites missing.
         "God damned pencil-pushing lab rat," she muttered. "How about you, mister? Are you here to fuck up the rest of my lunch break?"
         "I sincerely hope not," Kitfox said, producing his FBI credentials. "Leon Kitfox from the San Francisco office."
         "Oh, my God!" She wiped her fingers on a brown paper towel and offered her hand to shake, which he did. "What sort of name is Kitfox?"
         "It's Shoshone, Ma'am."
         "Well, now that your opinion of the Monterey Police is sealed in stone, what else can I do for you?"
         "Forget it. I have great sympathy for overworked law enforcement people. I'm here about the Robert Durant murder case."
         "Ah, yes, Monterey's national headline. The boss said the Bureau might be interested, but he didn't say why."
         "Over in Reno two weeks ago a man was bludgeoned to death with a bat. Same overkill, same lack of robbery, same everything except the weapon. I'm to try to determine whether they're related, which would, of course, involve the crossing of state lines."
         "And would, in turn, involve you taking over the case?"
         "I'm not here to step on your turf, just to offer assistance."
         "It wouldn't bother me. This is the damnedest thing I've ever seen."
         "How's that?"
         "Our suspect is Susan Darnall. She's a thirty-four-year-old housewife. She's real feminine, girly, you know the type."
         "A woman?"
         "Whatever. Works part time at the aquarium. They use her near the entrance because she's attractive and charming. The night of the murder she was apprehended running from the scene covered in the victim's blood with the murder weapon still in her possession. We didn't know at the time that a crime had been committed. She ran right into a patrol car. She was dressed in black workout clothes which were not appropriate to the weather but afforded her both concealment and freedom of movement."
         "Implying premeditation."
         "Obviously."
         "I suppose she has some tale of woe about happening on the crime scene and picking up the knife or some such."
         "Oh, it's way better than that. She claims to have no memory of the crime whatsoever."
         "That is better. When can I see her?"
         Zamora keyed her intercom. "Mary, get hold of Susan Darnall's lawyer and set up an interview."
         "He's in the building now," Mary replied.
         "About Darnall?"
         "No, I think it's for another case."
         "Well, see if you can find him. If he has time, we need to ask a few more questions."
         "Right away, Lieutenant."
         "We still have her here in holding," Zamora told him. "She'll be moved over to County in Salinas within a couple of days, but it's convenient to the investigation to have her here, and with her lawyer's concurrence, she's still with us."
         "Who's her lawyer?"
         "Mitchell Pierce. He's pretty reasonable as defense counsel goes. Seems to be as interested in justice as in cheap legal tricks. I recommend that you play straight with him, and he'll do the same."
         "Thanks for the tip."
         "Lieutenant."
         It was Mary, a young girl probably still in college, opening the door to interrupt. "Mr. Pierce says he has time now if you do."
         "We do. Thank you, Mary."
         They stepped out into the busy squad room where Zamora introduced Kitfox to a tall fiftyish man with a neat silver mustache and a brown tweed three-piece suit.
         "This is Leon Kitfox of the San Francisco FBI office."
         "Really," Pierce said as they shook hands. "What does the FBI have to do with this case?"
         "There was a similar murder in Nevada recently, and they sent me down to see if there's any connection."
         "Or establish one no matter what?"
         They began the walk to the basement holding cells, Zamora watching, no doubt to see how Kitfox would react.
         "Not at all," he said without a trace of emotion. "There is a case that is somewhat similar. Your client was either involved in that or she wasn't, and this is the first step toward finding out."
         They arrived at a desk set up at a wide spot in the hall, occupied by a large African-American sergeant.
         "Susan Darnall," Zamora said. "We'll need a room."
         "Three's open, Lieutenant," he told her. He opened the barred door behind him that led to a corridor of cells, opened one, and brought out a short, attractive woman in an orange jumpsuit. He fastened a pair of handcuffs on her right wrist and handed the open end to Zamora.
         They took her to a nearby interrogation room and handcuffed her to a bar running the length of the Formica table. Zamora switched on a recorder.
         "This is Wednesday, November the sixth, 1985. It is approximately one PM. I am Detective Lieutenant Inez Zamora supervising an interview of prisoner Susan Darnall. Present are Mrs. Darnall's attorney, Mitchell Pierce, and Special Agent Leon Kitfox of the San Francisco FBI office. Agent Kitfox, you may proceed."
         "Thank you. Mrs. Darnall, do you understand the charges that have been filed against you."
         "Yes."
         "And are you aware of the details of the crime with which you are charged?"
         "No."
         "The police are withholding the details," Pierce interjected, "so that only the true criminal would be aware of them."
         "Of course. Are you aware that the crime involves a particularly brutal level of violence, a level far beyond what is necessary to take a man's life?"
         "Yes."
         He noted her flat monotone. The woman seemed dazed by what was happening to her.
         "Do you consider yourself a violent woman, Mrs. Darnall?"
         "No."
         "Could you elaborate?"
         "I love my husband. I love my son. I work at the aquarium because i love to be around the people who come there. I feed the otters sometimes when they let me. I don't know what you want to hear. I don't allow a gun in my house, not even a toy. My son isn't allowed to play football because it glorifies violence. I can't even imagine killing someone, let alone mutilating the body as they say was done to this man."
         "I understand. Would you describe your activities on the night of the crime?"
         "I've already done that a hundred times."
         "But you haven't told me. Would you please, just once more?"
         "It's all right, Susan," Pierce said in response to her questioning look. "This may help you."
         "All right. As I've said repeatedly, I have no memory of committing any crime, least of all a murder."
         "But the bulk of your memory is intact?"
         "Yes."
         "The murder was committed Monday night about nine. What's the last thing you remember before that?"
         "I was at home. The family had eaten and I'd put the dishes into the dishwasher. The boys were watching TV and—"
         "Who are the boys?"
         "My son and husband."
         "Go on."
         "They were watching TV and I was laying out my clothes for work Tuesday. That's when everything goes blank. The next thing I remember, I had handcuffs on, and I was being put into the back of a police car."
         "You've had some time alone over the past two days. Have you tried to remember what happened during this gap?"
         "What do you think? If you couldn't remember the most devastating event in your life, would you be stressed over it?"
         Good. A little emotion.
         "Of course, I would. What happens when you try?"
         "I get a headache. The more I try, the worse it gets until I'm nearly blind from it."
         "I see. Well, Mr. Pierce, I think that's about all I'm going to get for now. Lieutenant?"
         "No, I have nothing new."
         "All right. Thank you, Mr. Pierce. I think we can call this session complete."
         As Zamora summoned the sergeant to escort the prisoner back to her cell, Kitfox stepped out into the hallway with Pierce.
         "Any impressions you'd care to share, Special Agent?"
         "I don't know. She certainly doesn't fit the profile."
         "No, she doesn't, and yet, given the conditions of her arrest, I don't know how I'm going to defend her. This is beginning to look like a classic insanity plea."
         "Schizophrenia?"
         "No, that leaves a long history of aberrant behavior. Maybe some form of multiple personality disorder, though logic suggests that would have manifested well before her mid-thirties. I don't know much about it, but I have an appointment with a local research psychologist who I'm hoping can give me something."
         "That would be nice," Kitfox agreed. "As it stands right now, I can't rule her out of the Nevada case. If she slipped out of consciousness once, she could have done it before. I have a few more items to check. If you come up with anything I should know about, give me a call."
         Kitfox handed him a business card.
         "I will," Pierce told him, producing a card of his own. "You do the same. Maybe between us we can get to the bottom of this."
         "I sure hope so." Kitfox offered his hand. "Pleasure meeting you, Mr. Pierce."

2:17 PM, Monterey

         "Do you seriously believe that woman butchered a man face to face with a carving knife? That's awfully personal, and requires a lot of strength to accomplish as well."
         Kitfox sat in Zamora's office awaiting a return call from his boss, Dixon.
         "You've read the report," Zamora told him, leafing through some paperwork from her court case tomorrow. "She was apprehended under conditions that preclude any alternate explanation."
         "It doesn't add up. That was a rage murder, done by someone who hated his guts. Have you established any connection between them?"
         "Not yet." She raised her voice over his next statement. "All that means is, not yet."
         "All right. What about the premeditation aspect? She supposedly dressed for the crime, studied his habits, laid in wait and so forth. Does it seem reasonable that in the midst of all that commando-style planning, she overlooked the need for an escape plan and an alibi?"
         "Maybe amnesia is her escape plan. You don't have to fake it anymore. I'm given to understand that it can be induced by drugs."
         "Who are you talking about? This is a part time receptionist, for God's sake."
         "Yes, and a very charming woman into the bargain. You're with the FBI. Did you ever meet Jeffrey Dahmer?"
         "No."
         "I've heard he was one of the most charming people you could ever hope to meet. He just showed his affection by eating his lovers."
         "Oh, this is nowhere close to similar. Dahmer was—"
         She held up her hand as the phone rang.
         "Homicide, Zamora... He's right here, sir. I'll put him on."
         She passed the phone across the desk.
         "Special Agent Kitfox."
         "How's it going down there, Leon?" asked Dixon's voice from the other end.
         "Strange case, sir, strange case."
         "How's that?"
         "This suspect they have just doesn't fit."
         "What the hell do you mean she doesn't fit? I'm familiar with the particulars. It's a slam-dunk case."
         "Sir, I've met the suspect. She's—"
         "Nice?"
         "Well, yes, sir, but—"
         "No buts, Leon. They caught her red-handed."
         "Sir, I believe red-handed qualifies as a racial slur."
         "Leave the comedy to the professionals, Leon. The woman did Monterey. Not our concern. All we need from you is whether she did Reno. Now, quit hobnobbing with the suspect, and find out whether she can be placed in Reno on the date of the murder there. Do you read me?"
         "Yes, sir, but—"          
         "No buts, Leon, God damn it! You are privileged to work for the real FBI, and the real FBI doesn't have an X-Files branch. You weren't sent down there to find UFOs. In case you've forgotten, your ass is still on the dime over those imaginary 'sewer people' you went after up north last year. If you know what's good for you, you'll settle down and do some police work. Do I make myself clear?"
         "Quite clear, sir."
         "Good. Then call me when you have something to report."
         The phone clicked in Kitfox's ear and he handed it back to Zamora.
         "Not very understanding, is he?" she asked.
         "Not very. Do you have the number of Darnall's office at the aquarium?"
         "Yeah, it's in the case file there. Got an idea?"
         "No, ma'am. Just following orders."

3:18 PM, Monterey

         Kitfox walked past the ticket window and joined a short line at the aquarium entrance. Opened last year at a cost of 55 million dollars, the Monterey Bay Aquarium had established a standard for oceanographic exhibits that had yet to be rivaled anywhere in the world. Its building, a replica of a Steinbeck-era cannery, was only the first hint of the grandeur within.
         Kitfox wasn't here for the grandeur, though, and he made that clear when he reached the young woman at the turnstile and, instead of a ticket, produced an FBI identification card.
         "Special Agent Leon Kitfox, FBI. I'd like to speak with someone in charge of staffing, please."
         The girl was a picture of adolescent California beauty, tanned and toned with streaky blonde hair, probably still in high school, and upon seeing his FBI card, her eyes widened, and her mouth opened into a small O. Kids were funny. An honest kid saw the FBI standing in front of him and he became a little frightened; show this card to a kid with a record longer than Capone's, and he just got more belligerent.
         This young lady recovered her wits quickly enough.
         "Certainly, sir. Wait right here, please." She indicated a spot right beside her, and as she continued greeting patrons, she picked up a microphone and keyed the public address system. "Ms. Maple to the main entrance, please. Ms. Maple, main entrance."
         He didn't have to wait long for a severe-looking woman to approach at a brisk walk. She wore a skirted business suit and sensible shoes that hid any sign of femininity, and her brown hair was pulled back into a bun that he was certain had crossed the threshold of pain. He felt a sudden pang of pity for the young girl beside him, even before she snapped, "What is it, Cynthia? I'm quite busy, you know."
         "This gentleman's here to see you, ma'am."
         "I'm afraid we aren't hiring," she said to Kitfox without missing a beat.
         He saw the girl stifle a smile at that.
         "I'm afraid I'm not applying," he answered, holding up his FBI credentials. "Leon Kitfox, Special Agent from the San Francisco office."
         She looked even more serious for a moment, then said, "This is about Susan, isn't it?"
         "Yes, ma'am. Is there someplace private we can talk?"
         "Of course, there's my office. This way." She walked him back past the entrance to a carefully unobtrusive wing of the building designed to go unnoticed.
         "Donna Maple," she said as they walked, "Director of Personnel."
         "Pleased to meet you."
         "What kind of name is Kitfox, if you don't mind my asking?"
         "Shoshone."
         "I see." They entered her office. "Take a seat, Mr. Kitfox, and let's get your questions answered."
         Her office was small but cluttered with souvenirs of life, the bookshelves and file cabinets given spirit by a profusion of figurines, small toys from a generation ago, and baby pictures, obviously of a grandchild. He revised his opinion in a favorable direction.
         "I'm trying to establish Mrs. Darnall's whereabouts for the afternoon and evening of October 27th."
         "And why do you want to do that?"
         "Police business, ma'am."
         "And the contents of my personnel records are the business of the board of directors. What if I tell you that you'll have to subpoena them"
         "That can be done, but it isn't— Look, the bureau is looking into whether Mrs. Darnall might have been involved in a similar crime in another jurisdiction on the 27th of October."
         "Something you wouldn't mind proving, no doubt?"
         "Why does everyone assume that? All I want is the truth. If the woman didn't do it, it's a waste of time and money to prosecute her. If we can put her somewhere else on the date in question, that's that."
         "I see. In that case, I'll help you. The 27th, you say?"
         "That's right."
         She pulled a folder from a groaning in-basket and thumbed through a stack of what were obviously work schedules, sheets laid out in gridded squares with name after name typed in, lined out, printed in ink, circles and arrows everywhere. This didn't look promising.
         "The 27th was a Sunday," she said with a significant glance. "Sundays are a big day for us. We tend to pull in extra staff. Ah, here we are."
         She laid one of the indecipherable sheets before him and guided his eye with the tip of her pen.
         "We first had her in at noon. She worked the group entrance from noon til two, and her signature will appear on the sign-in sheets."
         "That's a little earlier than we care about."
         "Okay. From two to four, we moved her upstairs to Flippers and Flukes. There's a snack bar up there, and it gives the employees a chance to sit down."
         "What was she doing after four?"
         "Let's see, from four until we closed at six, she worked in Portola. That's our cafeteria. This 'C' by her name indicates that she helped close, which means storing and disposing of food as appropriate and cleaning everything to Health Department standards. The supervisor that night was Mr. Quinn, who considers perfection to be barely adequate. She wouldn't have gotten out of here before six forty-five. Would you like to see her time sheet?"
         "If it's convenient."
         She took another folder from a file drawer, removed a sheet that consisted of columns of numbers, and laid that before him.
         "Here, on the 27th, she signs out at six fifty-two, and there are Mr. Quinn's initials. That's when we lose track of her."
         "Thank you, Ms. Maple, you've been a great help." He rose to go.
         "Mr. Kitfox," she asked, pleading with her eyes, "I know you aren't supposed to tell me anything, but does this help Susan?"
         He studied her face for a moment, weighing the wisdom of confiding in a civilian, then said, "Yes, ma'am, a great deal."

9:45 PM, Salinas, California

         Uschi Ikhilevich lay on the bed in his middle tier hotel room, shirtless and shoeless, reading a book on the psychology of stress.
         Stress. Ha! This infernal heat was all the stress anybody needed!
         The truth was that it wasn't that hot. A few days of Indian summer were moving through the valley, and everyone save Uschi was thoroughly enjoying this dessert of warm, lazy days spent in relaxed comfort. Uschi was accustomed to a much cooler climate.
          The human survival instinct considers itself safe when the individual is comfortable, he read, a situation which gives rise to sloth and makes it much more common than parents and supervisors would like to admit. Conversely, when the individual is forced out of his feeling of comfort by whatever circumstance, be it an attacking lion or a displeased boss, the survival instinct will attempt to correct its status back into its comfort zone. If it is unable to do this, stress is induced.
         At this point in the text, the telephone rang, causing Uschi to jump violently. He smiled at this practical demonstration of the very concept of what he had just read. He hated the harsh ring of American telephones, in fact, he hated most of the little details of life in this country. The only thing he didn't hate was the ease with which comfort could be attained. Rolling to the bedside table, he answered the phone.
         "Hello."
         "Uschi?"
         "Who is this, please?"
         "It's Dave, old buddy. Don't tell me you don't recognize my voice."
         "Dave? Are you mad. This phone is not being secure."
         "That's all right, old buddy, I won't say anything if you don't. How is the project going?"
         "Everything is in place and proceeding on the schedule. It is necessary that you do not do this again."
         "I'll decide what's necessary, old buddy. I's my project, and my money that's funding it."
         "I have not forgotten from where comes the job. If you do not trust me to carry it out, you should have retained someone for whom you have the trust."
         "Save the crap for the hicks," his caller said, leaving him wondering who the hell the Hicks might be. "I'll ask you about the color of your turds if it bears on the job. Now, are your people in place?"
         "At this date? Of course, they have to be!"
         "And are they reliable?"
         "You know very well that everyone I work with is reliable. How dare you question those I have prepared?"
         "Now, you listen to me, pal, and you listen good. I question everything. I didn't get to this position by relying on the hired help to get it right. You keep giving me shit, you're going to find yourself in the unemployment line, do I make myself clear?"
         "You want to fire me, capitalist bastard? You do it now? Maybe I quit, then we see what you can accomplish in the week you have left."
         "Uschi," the caller said in a soothing tone. Ikhilevich wasn't having it.
         "No Uschi! I know how to do my God damned job without money-sucking bastard looking over shoulder. I have prepared staff. Staff is in place. Staff will carry out instructions with precision of Bolshoi Ballet. You may go to hell with speed of express train for all I care. Am I being clear?"
         "Quite clear, Uschi."
         "Good. Now, do you wish to fire me, or shall I go ahead?"
         "Please, go ahead, Uschi."
         "Fine, I go ahead. You wish to speak with me again, you use proper channel. Good bye!"
         Uschi slammed the phone down and tossed his book aside, no longer in the mood to read. Sitting up, he stepped into his shoes. He would go out for a quick snack. Mexican food had always appealed to him.