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Authors: James Patterson, Mark Sullivan
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politician. Which was what had puzzled me about the killings. Why were we here? Why had Del Rio and I been allowed to see the raw footage?
“Yes, and only to the mayor,” Vicente said, looking to Wills, a tall, formidable, red-haired woman who long ago played volleyball at UCLA and graduated first in her class at Stanford Law.
“What is it, dear?” Mayor Wills asked.
Sheila Vicente reached into her purse and with trembling hands drew out a Baggie. I could see there was something inside it but couldn’t tell much more. The assistant district attorney started to hand the Baggie to the mayor, but Chief Fescoe was quicker and blocked the transfer.
“Lay it on the desk,” he said. “No more fingerprints.”
“He wore gloves, flesh-colored thin gloves,” Vicente said.
I crossed the room to the desk, saw the lime-green card in the Baggie, and saw the printing: NO PRISONERS.
Four yesterday. Five today. He’s on an escalating spree. Those were my first thoughts. I said, “Captain Harry Thomas with sheriff’s homicide has a card just like this, taken in evidence at the Malibu Beach killings last night.”
Sheriff Cammarata scowled but said, “That’s true.”
Sheila Vicente said, “Mayor, he told me to tell you that unless you comply with his demands there will be no mercy after this. None.”
“What demands?” Mayor Wills said. “I haven’t heard any demands.”
There was a silence for a beat, broken by Chief Fescoe, who paled considerably before saying, “I have. In letters yesterday and today, and then again on video two hours ago.”
“What?” cried Blaze, the district attorney.
“And you told no one?” demanded Sheriff Cammarata.
Fescoe bristled. “At first we thought it was just some nut job writing crazy letters. We had no word that you found that calling card at Malibu last night. Until the killings at the CVS, we had nothing to say the threats were real.”
“What threats and what video?” Del Rio asked.
Fescoe nodded to his assistant. “The ones we got two hours ago.”
The assistant tapped an order into a laptop computer. YouTube appeared on the big screen. The featured video on the page was entitled
NO PRISONERS: FACES OF WAR L.A.
“Play it,” Fescoe said.
The slayings on the beach were ruthless, precise, and shot from the killer’s perspective. The camera work seemed remarkably smooth given the brutality of the action. The only parts of the killer you saw, however, were the gloves and the guns.
After the last man fell dead, a warning appeared:
IF YOU DO NOT COMPLY
MANY MORE WILL DIE.
NO ONE IS SAFE. NO ONE
“Hundred and twenty-five thousand hits,” Del Rio said, tearing me from thoughts of being under the tarps the night before, looking at the burned bodies of the four men I’d just seen executed on video.
“Comply?” the mayor said. “Comply with what?”
Fescoe paled again, swallowed, and said, “He wants money to stop the killings. Lots of money.”
Chapter 20
“LET ME GET this straight,” Mayor Wills said, sinking into her desk chair. “He’s killing people to extort the city?”
“This explains it,” Fescoe said, nodding to his assistant again. YouTube disappeared, replaced by high-res photographs of two typed letters. “We got the letter on the left yesterday morning, the one on the right this morning. Both through snail mail.”
I scanned the two letters. Both talked about “senseless killings that could easily be avoided” and suggested that failure to accede to the demands would result in mass terror and damage to the Los Angeles economy. “After all,” the letters read, “who wants to be a tourist in Murder Central, USA?”
The first letter demanded a million dollars to prevent further killings. The second asked for two million and threatened that the price would rise again if No Prisoners was not contacted by ten the following morning. The letters gave instructions for Fescoe to initiate contact by posting a specific
“Yes, and only to the mayor,” Vicente said, looking to Wills, a tall, formidable, red-haired woman who long ago played volleyball at UCLA and graduated first in her class at Stanford Law.
“What is it, dear?” Mayor Wills asked.
Sheila Vicente reached into her purse and with trembling hands drew out a Baggie. I could see there was something inside it but couldn’t tell much more. The assistant district attorney started to hand the Baggie to the mayor, but Chief Fescoe was quicker and blocked the transfer.
“Lay it on the desk,” he said. “No more fingerprints.”
“He wore gloves, flesh-colored thin gloves,” Vicente said.
I crossed the room to the desk, saw the lime-green card in the Baggie, and saw the printing: NO PRISONERS.
Four yesterday. Five today. He’s on an escalating spree. Those were my first thoughts. I said, “Captain Harry Thomas with sheriff’s homicide has a card just like this, taken in evidence at the Malibu Beach killings last night.”
Sheriff Cammarata scowled but said, “That’s true.”
Sheila Vicente said, “Mayor, he told me to tell you that unless you comply with his demands there will be no mercy after this. None.”
“What demands?” Mayor Wills said. “I haven’t heard any demands.”
There was a silence for a beat, broken by Chief Fescoe, who paled considerably before saying, “I have. In letters yesterday and today, and then again on video two hours ago.”
“What?” cried Blaze, the district attorney.
“And you told no one?” demanded Sheriff Cammarata.
Fescoe bristled. “At first we thought it was just some nut job writing crazy letters. We had no word that you found that calling card at Malibu last night. Until the killings at the CVS, we had nothing to say the threats were real.”
“What threats and what video?” Del Rio asked.
Fescoe nodded to his assistant. “The ones we got two hours ago.”
The assistant tapped an order into a laptop computer. YouTube appeared on the big screen. The featured video on the page was entitled
NO PRISONERS: FACES OF WAR L.A.
“Play it,” Fescoe said.
The slayings on the beach were ruthless, precise, and shot from the killer’s perspective. The camera work seemed remarkably smooth given the brutality of the action. The only parts of the killer you saw, however, were the gloves and the guns.
After the last man fell dead, a warning appeared:
IF YOU DO NOT COMPLY
MANY MORE WILL DIE.
NO ONE IS SAFE. NO ONE
“Hundred and twenty-five thousand hits,” Del Rio said, tearing me from thoughts of being under the tarps the night before, looking at the burned bodies of the four men I’d just seen executed on video.
“Comply?” the mayor said. “Comply with what?”
Fescoe paled again, swallowed, and said, “He wants money to stop the killings. Lots of money.”
Chapter 20
“LET ME GET this straight,” Mayor Wills said, sinking into her desk chair. “He’s killing people to extort the city?”
“This explains it,” Fescoe said, nodding to his assistant again. YouTube disappeared, replaced by high-res photographs of two typed letters. “We got the letter on the left yesterday morning, the one on the right this morning. Both through snail mail.”
I scanned the two letters. Both talked about “senseless killings that could easily be avoided” and suggested that failure to accede to the demands would result in mass terror and damage to the Los Angeles economy. “After all,” the letters read, “who wants to be a tourist in Murder Central, USA?”
The first letter demanded a million dollars to prevent further killings. The second asked for two million and threatened that the price would rise again if No Prisoners was not contacted by ten the following morning. The letters gave instructions for Fescoe to initiate contact by posting a specific
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