“Good point,” Harrow said. “But there’s one thing all the victims in both cases have in common.”
Jenny, coming in at the rear of the room, answered him: “They were all drugged.”
“With the same drug,” Anderson said, as she nestled next to him. “Flunitrazepam. A.k.a Rohypnol.”
Roofies.
Harrow asked, “Anything we can track?”
“As if,” Choi said.
Anderson shook his head.
“All right,” Harrow said, and sighed. “What about the levels of the drug in their systems?”
The chemist checked his notes. “More in the men than in the women, but roughly the same by gender.”
“How much?”
“Pardon?”
“We know the dosages weren’t lethal, right?”
“Ah, I see where you’re goin’, boss — they each, male and female, had enough of the drug in their systems to make them... well, pliable, but not knock them out.”
“So whoever gave them the drug had some working knowledge of the stuff, including the correct dosage, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
Pall asked, “Someone in the medical community?”
“Or a pharmacist,” Chase said without enthusiasm.
“Yeah, I know, it’s weak,” Harrow said. “Let’s go back to the victims. FBI Rousch said we should reexamine the victimology.”
“Yeah,” Choi said, “we should take advice from that stooge.”
“Billy...” Harrow began.
Choi held up his hands in surrender.
“Well,” Jenny said, “I may have something — the men who checked into those three motel rooms... Jeff Bailey, Al Roberts, Eric Stanton?”
All eyes were on her.
Harrow said, “What about them?”
“Really common names, but... they’re also all characters from movies. Crime movies. Film noir?”
“Go on,” Harrow said.
“Jeff Bailey was a character played by Robert Mitchum in Out of the Past. Al Roberts was from a movie called Detour. Played by Tom Neal, and Dana Andrews, that actor in Laura? He played Eric Stanton in Fallen Angel.”
Harrow said, “Out of the Past, Detour, Fallen Angel. Anyone think those are randomly chosen?”
No one spoke up.
Turning to their resident profiler, Harrow asked, “Any ideas, Michael?”
“Not yet. I’ll need to think on it.”
“Fair enough. Let’s get started looking into the possibilities. Laurene, call Amari, Polk, and Rousch and share our theory with them, and this new information. Tell them I’d like to meet straightaway.”
Chase nodded, and headed into the hall, cell phone in hand.
Harrow said, “Suddenly there’s a movie theme running through the Billie Shears case.”
Choi said, “But Billie Shears is a music reference.”
“Doesn’t matter. The cops dubbed her that. But Don Juan gave himself that name. We get the great lover significance — what about movie resonance?”
“Hollywood Boulevard body turned up near the Chinese Theater,” Choi said, “on Errol Flynn’s star, Don Juan himself. Wendi Erskine was an actress, infomercials mostly. Gina Hannan a dental assistant. Megan Chavez a movie hairdresser...”
“Those last two may be day jobs,” Harrow said, “for wannabe actresses. Let’s find out.”
Jenny said, “I’d like access to the e-mail accounts of the victims.”
“I think,” Harrow said, “we can arrange that.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Midmorning, Harrow met briefly in his office with Amari, Polk, and the FBI agent Rousch. Everybody quickly got on board the theory that Don Juan and Billie Shears were a single serial-killer team.
Anna looked casually great in an LAPD T-shirt and jeans. Polk was casual, too, or anyway his idea of it, black cargo pants and a black T-shirt. The FBI guy wore a suit.
“I’m fine with giving Jenny Blake access to the appropriate e-mail records,” Anna said. “Anything else?”
Harrow leaned back in his swivel desk chair. “We know they’re using roofies, right?” “Right.”
“Any chance you could track where they’re getting the stuff?”
“No shortage of street sources,” Polk said. “We can start there.”
“One trackable source of Rohypnol,” Anna said, sitting forward, “is veterinarians’ offices. We’ll check for any reported thefts.”
“I can put some people on it,” Rousch said, nodding at these good ideas. “We can check over a larger area.”
“Great,” Harrow said. “That kind of thing is beyond my team’s resources.”
Rousch offered up a lopsided smile. “Your people have done outstanding work. I apologize for suggesting you’d do better on the sidelines, the other day.”
“No problem. Uh, Mark — are you still thinking you’d like to see Crime Seen go on hiatus till this thing is over?”
“I am.”
“Well, now’s your chance to make your pitch. When I knew you were heading over, I called the network president. He’s in his office right now. Want to meet with him?”
“Burnside himself?”
“Dennis Byrnes himself.”
“Well, uh... please.”
Anna and Polk slipped out to work with the Killer TV team, and within five minutes Byrnes had joined Harrow and the FBI agent, taking the seat Anna had vacated.
The exec was in a pink polo shirt and black shorts, sockless in white deck shoes. He did not look his most intimidating.
On the other hand, another guest — unexpected by Harrow much less Rousch — seemed plenty intimidating.
Bald, black Lucian Richards entered and positioned himself in his folded-arms, living-statue, harem-guard way just beside the seated Harrow.
The attorney must have come directly from church or anyway had taken time to change — his sharply tailored, plum-colored suit sent two messages: I am not here to screw around; and I am on the clock...
Harrow made the introductions. The handshakes between the FBI man and the network prez were perfunctory, and all Rousch got from Richards was a grave nod.
Rousch said, “Obviously, Mr. Byrnes, J.C. has informed you of what we would like done.”
“Yes.”
“Our top profilers are of the opinion that these perpetrators may back off, without the promise of celebrity that Crime Seen affords them.”
Byrnes’s shrug indicated an easygoing attitude that his unblinking gaze didn’t back up. “We discussed temporarily pulling the show, after receiving the first Don Juan video.”
“Yes, J.C. said as much.”
“And we have never caved to this madman’s demands that we air his sick handiwork.”
“I know. And the Bureau appreciates that.”
“But early on, Special Agent Rousch, we at UBC came to the decision that we cannot hide from our responsibility as communicators.”
“Meaning...?”
“Meaning the show will stay on the air.”
Rousch’s throat was reddening. “You would risk more lives? For what, more money?”
Harrow expected Richards to wade in, but the attorney remained a big, looming, silent presence. For now.
Byrnes said, “Can you guarantee that no one else will die if we yank the show?”
“Of course I can’t!”
“Of course you can’t. We have a top profiler, too, Special Agent Rousch... J.C., what does Mr. Pall say?”