Fair Warning (Jack McEvoy #3)(98)

The Shrike was crushed under the car. His face was turned toward me and his eyes were open, one of them staring lifelessly, the other in a broken orbit and at an off-angle.

“Help me push this off him!” somebody yelled to the others running to the scene.

I started to get up.

“Don’t bother,” I said. “It’s too late.”





THE END





46

As of now, they don’t know the identity of the man who was crushed under my car. We can’t put a true name to him. There was no identification in the gray hoodie he wore or the pockets of his pants. His fingerprints and DNA were submitted by the FBI to every available database in the world and produced no match. An extensive and thorough search of a mile-wide grid around the Sun Ray Studios building found no abandoned vehicle and only a gas-station camera that captured an out-of-focus angle on a man in a gray hoodie crossing east to west over the 101 freeway on the Barham Boulevard overpass. He was moving in the direction of the studio an hour before the live podcast. But a new grid search on the east side of the freeway produced no vehicle and no record of a drop-off by any car service.

Examination of the body during autopsy revealed a prior surgery to repair a broken arm bone called the radius. It appeared to have been a childhood injury, a spiral fracture, which is an indication of abuse. There was limited dental work. What there was appeared to be distinctly American, but not enough to successfully trace X-rays to a specific dentist or patient.

As of now the Shrike remains a cipher in death.

Most likely it will remain that way. In the parlance of the newspaper business, he is now off the front page. The public’s moment of grim fascination with him dissipated like smoke curling away from a cigarette as the focus of the media moved on. The Shrike had flown beneath the radar for most of his existence. He returned there after his run was over.

With the Shrike no longer a threat, Emily Atwater returned from the UK, having found that she missed Los Angeles. And with the ending to the story I had provided on the 101 freeway, she was able to complete the book. She then returned to FairWarning as its senior staff writer, and I know Myron was happy about that.

Still, I remained haunted by not knowing who the Shrike was and what made him a killer of women. To me, that left the story unfinished. It was a question that would remain in my mind forever.

The whole story changed me. I wondered often about what might have been if I had not happened to go on a date with Christina Portrero. If my name had not come up in the LAPD investigation and Mattson and Sakai had not followed me into the garage that night. Would the Shrike still be out there below the radar? Would Hammond and Vogel still be operating Dirty4 on the dark web? And would William Orton still be selling the DNA of unsuspecting women to them?

These were scary thoughts but also inspiring ones. They made me think about all the unsolved cases out there. All the failures of justice and all of the mothers, fathers, and families who had lost loved ones. I thought about Charisse, who had called the podcast, and wished there was a way to reach out to her.

I knew then that I could no longer be an observer, a journalist who wrote about these things or talked about them in a podcast. I knew that I could not be a sideline reporter. I needed to be in the game.

On the first working day of the new year I drove downtown in my replacement Range Rover, found parking, and walked into the offices of RAW Data in the Mercantile Bank building. I asked to speak to Rachel and soon enough was directed back to her office. We had not spoken since the day the Shrike had been killed. I didn’t bother to sit down. I expected this to be quick.

“What’s up?” she asked tentatively.

“I have an idea and I want you to hear me out,” I said.

“I’m listening.”

“I don’t want to just tell murder stories on the podcast. I want to solve them.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I said. I want to work murders on the podcast. We bring in a case, a cold case, discuss it, work it, solve it. I want you to be part of it. You profile the cases, then we go to work on them.”

“Jack, you’re not—”

“It doesn’t matter that I’m not police. We live in digital times. The police are analog. We can put things together. Remember that woman who called the podcast? Charisse? She said nobody’s working that case. We could.”

“You’re talking about being amateur detectives.”

“You’re not an amateur, and I know when we were working on the Shrike you loved it. You were back doing what you were meant to do. I took that away from you but now I’m offering it back.”

“It’s not the same, Jack.”

“No, it’s better. Because we have no rules.”

She said nothing.

“Anybody can run background checks,” I said. “But you have a gift. I saw it with the Shrike.”

“And you’re saying this would be a podcast?” she asked.

“We meet, talk about the case, record and post it. The advertising will fund the investigations.”

“It seems kind of crazy.”

“There’s a podcast out there about a housewife who got a serial killer to confess. Nothing is crazy. This could work.”

“And where do these cases come from?”

“Anywhere, everywhere. Google. I’m going to find the case Charisse called about. Her sister’s case.”