"Enough to do the trick," said De la Torre. "So who cut the fence? Where'd Peake get tools for that?"
"Good question," said Milo. "Maybe Dollard carried the blade he was cut with. Maybe one of those Swiss Army deals with tools. Though there'd be no way for Peake to know that, unless Dollard had gotten really sloppy and let him see it. The alternative's obvious. A partner."
Banks said, "This is some big-time premeditated deal? I thought the guy was a lunatic."
"Even lunatics can have pals," said Milo.
"You got that right," said De la Torre. "Check out the next city council meeting."
Banks said, "Any ideas about who the buddy might be?"
Milo eyed Swig. "Please go down to your office and wait there, sir."
"Forget it," said Swig. "As director of this facility, I have jurisdiction and I need to know what's going on."
"You will," said Milo. "Soon as we know something, you'll be the first to find out, but in the meantime-"
"In the meantime, I need to be-" Swig's protest was cut short by a beeper. He and all three detectives reached for their belts.
Banks said, "Mine," and scanned the readout. A cell phone materialized and Banks identified himself, listened, said, "When? Where?," wiggled his fingers at De la Torre, and was handed a notepad. Tucking the phone under his chin, he wrote.
The rest of us watched him nod. Emotionless. Clicking off the phone, he said, "When we got your call I told our desk to keep an eye out for any psycho crimes in the vicinity. This isn't exactly in the vicinity, but it's pretty psycho: woman found on the Five near Valencia." He examined his notes. "White female, approximately twenty-five to thirty-five, multiple stab wounds to torso and face, really messy. Coroner says within the last two hours, which could fit if your boy has wheels. Tire tracks nearby said someone did. She wasn't just dumped there-lots of blood: it's almost certain that's where she got done."
"What kind of facial wounds?" said Milo.
"Lips, nose, eyes-the guy at the scene said it was really brutal. That fits, right?"
"Eyes," said Milo.
"My God," said Swig.
"Was she found on the northbound Five?" I said.
"Yes," said Banks.
Everyone stared at me.
"The road to Treadway," I said. "He's going home."
Chapter 34
The last bit of news deflated Swig. He looked small, crushed, a kid with a man's job.
Milo paid him no attention, spent his time on the phone. Talking to the Highway Patrol, informing the sheriffs of the towns neighboring Treadway, warning Bunker Protection. The private firm must have given him problems, because when he got off, he snapped the phone shut so hard I thought he'd break it.
"Okay, let's see what shakes up," he told Banks and De la Torre. To Swig: "Get me George Orson's personnel file."
"It's downstairs in the records room."
"Then that's where we're going."
The records-room treasures were concealed by one of the unmarked doors bordering Swig's office. Tight space, hemmed by black file cabinets. The folder was right where it should have been. Milo examined it as the sheriff's men looked over his shoulder.
Missing photo, but George Orson's physical statistics fit Derrick Crimmins perfectly: six-three, 170, thirty-six years old. The address was the mail drop on Pico near Barrington. No phone number.
"What else exactly did this guy do?" said Banks.
"Series of cons, and he probably killed his dad and mom and brother."
Swig said, "I can't believe this. If we hired him, his credentials had to be in order. The state fingerprints them-"
"He has no arrest record we know of, so prints don't mean much," said Milo, taking the file and flipping pages. "Says here he completed the psych tech course at Orange Coast College… No point following that up, who cares if he bo-gused his education." To Swig: "Would there be any record if he actually returned his keys?"
"His file's in order. That means he did. Any irregularity-"
"Is picked up by the system. I know. Of course, even if he did return them, seeing as he got to take them home every day, he had plenty of chances to make copies."
"Each key is clearly imprinted 'Do Not Duplicate.' "
"Gee," said De la Torre. "That would scare me."
Swig braced himself against the nearest file. "There was no reason to worry about that. The risk wasn't someone breaking in. Why don't you look for him, instead of harping'? Why would he come back!"
"Must be the ambience," said Milo. "Or maybe the new air-conditioning." He looked up at a small grilled grate in the center of the ceiling. "What about the ductwork? Wide enough for someone to fit?"
"No, no, no," said Swig, with sudden conviction. "Absolutely not. We considered that when we installed, used narrow ducts-six inches in diameter. It caused technical problems, that's why the work took so long to-" He stopped. "Peake's my only concern. Should we keep searching?"
"Any reason to stop?" said Milo.
"If he killed that woman on the freeway, he's miles away."
"And if he didn't?"
"Fine-exactly-got to go, need to supervise."
"Sure," said Milo. "Do your thing."
Outside the main building, the fireflies continued to dance, fragmented sporadically by the downslanting beams of circling helicopters. Milo yelled at a guard to get us out of there.
He and I and the sheriff's detectives reconvened in the parking lot, next to the unmarked. The white coroner's van was still in place, as were the squad cars and a pea-green sedan that had to be Banks and De la Torre's wheels.
Banks said, "So what's the theory here? This Orson, or whatever his real name is, snuck in somehow and got Peake loose? What's his motive?" Milo flourished an open palm in my direction. "Unclear," I said. "It may have had something to do with Peake's original rampage. Crimmins and Peake go way back. It's possible-now I'd say probable-that Crimmins was involved somehow. Either by directly urging Peake to kill the Ardullos or by doing something more subtle." I described the long-term conflict between the Crimminses and the Ardullos, described Peake's prophecies. "Money," said De laTorre.
"That's part of it, but there's more. The root of all this is power and domination-criminal production. Orson- Derrick Crimmins-sees himself as an artist. I think he views the massacre as his first major creative accomplishment. He's been working on something called Blood Walk. At least three people associated with the film are dead; there may very well be others. I think Crimmins has reserved a role for Peake, but I can't say what it is. Now he's decided it's time to put Peake in the spotlight."
"Sounds nuts," said De laTorre.
Banks looked back at the yard. "Funny 'bout that, Hector." To me: "So Crimmins is crazy, too? They hired a psychotic to work here?"
"Crimmins comes across as a classic psychopath," I said. "Sane but evil. Sometimes psychopaths fall apart, but not usually. Fundamentally, he's a loser-can't hold on to money, can't stick with anything, has had to take jobs that he considers below him. On some level, that enrages him. He takes out his anger on others. But he's fully aware of what he's doing-has been careful enough to shift identities, addresses, pull off one scam after another. All that spells rationality."
"Rational," said De la Torre, "except he likes to kill people." He stretched both wings of his mustache, distorting the lower half of his face. Releasing the hair, he allowed his lips to settle into a frown. "Okay, now Peake. Basically, you're saying he was a head-case blood freak who turned into a vegetable here because they overdosed him. But for him to cooperate in the escape, he'd have to be significantly better put together than a summer squash. You think he could've been faking how crazy he is?"