The Pandora Directive

Chapter Five

I set the needle down carefully. A few seconds a crackling, then Nat King Cole’s voice began to fill the office. I walked around the desk and dropped into my chair. The desktop was covered: a partially filled glass, a bottle of JD behind it, he smouldering ashtray, a fingerprint testing kit, a magnifying glass, and other investigative paraphernalia. In the centre of this mess were the two notes Emily had given me. Three hours’ worth of analysis, and I was no better off than when I’d started.

One note read: I’m watching you. I take pictures. Be afraid. It was written on a plane 8 1/2 by 11 inch sheet in block letters with a standard No. 2 pencil. At the bottom of the sheet was a symbol shaped like an arrow. It seemed familiar to me, though I couldn’t think of where I’d seen it before. The second note was identical, except for the content. It read: It won’t be long now. You and I will be together.

Whoever had sent the notes was one sick, creepy bastard, but he was also very careful. There were only two sets of prints on the sheets: mine and Emily’s. No stains, no marks of any kind. Everything he’d used to create the notes was standard, easy to get, and untraceable. There was one unique thing about the notes: the arrow symbol. It wasn’t much, but it was my only angle.

“Certainly has been a long time, Tex.” Patty Baker’s full, rosy cheeks glistened under false eyelashes and peroxide-friendly hair.

“Yeah, well, you know how it is for me, Patty. Work, work, work.”

It was a slight exaggeration, but Patty required excuses. She and I had gotten chummy a couple of years ago. It had been an unintentional foray into the world of one-night stands, but the resulting ungentlemanly obligation that came with it would make me uncomfortable every time I paid a visit to the San Francisco PD Main Precinct. One night had been enough to convince me that she must be someone else’s type.

Patty pursed her lips and pouted in a somewhat revolting fashion. “I’ll bet you could squeeze me into a busy shadow for an evening or two.”

“I’ll have to take a rain check, sweetheart. I’ve got a big case going — could keep me busy for months… years, even. As a matter of fact, that’s why I’m here. I need to bend Mac’s ear for a bit.”

Patty gave me a coy, girlish look and ogled me in a way that was supposed to leave me wanting more. She leaned forward, reaching for the Vid-phone control panel. A deep, raspy voice jumped out of the speaker behind the front desk. “What?!”

Patty pressed down a button and looked up at me, seductively. Nothing about her look made me change my mind.

“Mr Tex Murphy to see you, sir.”

“God… all right! Send him back!”

Patty punched the door release, and I step through the security scanner.

“Thanks, Patty.” As I passed her, a paw cupped my backside. I jumped slightly and quickened my pace to Mac Malden’s office. I felt violated.

I only saw Mac when I needed a favour from the police department. It was a friendship of convenience, at least for me. I unintentionally helped him solve a couple of cases in the past, including the murder of Marshal Alexander. Mick Flemm’s robbery spree, and the mysterious death of Rusty the Clown. Mac was old school and knew when he owed someone, even if he bitched every time I asked for anything.

The crusty cop was sprawled in a high-backed swivel chair, a bent smoke sticking up from under his moustache and a police report in his hands. His desk was piled with papers, plastic freezer bags full of various items, at least a dozen Styrofoam cups, and a handful of petrified doughnut chunks. Mac set the police report on the desk, took a deep drag, and leaned back. He always tried to look like he was busy doing important work whenever I came by.

“Make it quick, Murphy. I’ve got about a million things to do, and wasting my time on you isn’t one of them.”

“Geez, Mac. I don’t see you that often. I worry about you… you don’t look too good.”

“Yeah?! Well, neither do you! You look like crap!”

“Oh, I’ll admit, I’m not twenty-eight any more, but, you know, I feel great. I’ve got one of those juicers, and it really works! I think you could do with the nice cabbage and carrot juice blend.”

“What’d you do? Quit the PI business and sign up with Robco? I don’t wanna buy a damn juicer — and I don’t like wise guys coming in my office and annoying me! So get out!”

“Ok. Calm down, Mac I’m just kidding you. I actually have a reason for stopping by. I want you to look at something.”

I pulled the notes from my coat pocket, unfolded them, and set them in front of Mac. He lit another smoke and looked them over carefully. Then he motioned for me to close his office door.

“Where did you get these?” his tone of voice was startlingly unfamiliar. He was looking directly at me, without a hint of the usual acid gruffness or antagonisms.

“A client gave them to me.”

Mac handed the notes back to me, then pulled a sheet of paper and pen and out of a desk drawer. Mac scribbled on the paper as he spoke. “They’re meaningless. I wouldn’t worry about it.” he held the sheet of paper in front of me. I can’t talk. Someone might be listening.

I mouthed “Who?” then spoke aloud as Mac wrote some more. “Yeah, that’s what I figured, but I thought I’d check it out.”

Mac held up the paper. NSA. Hot damn. The National Security Agency only got involved in big stuff. Apparently I’d stumbled into something a helluva lot bigger than I’d bargained for. I took the paper from Mac and picked up pencil from the desk. What do you know about these notes?

Mac took the sheet of paper. “Did you see the Giants game last night?” He scribbled.

I took my time answering. “Naw. I went out. I haven’t seen the paper yet today. Who won?”

“Dodgers, five to four. Got three in the ninth. Manousakis hit one into the third deck.” he passed me the paper. Black Arrow killer — murdered seven or eight in AZ and NV over the past two years. Arrow symbol referred to in case notes. Another girl murdered here few weeks ago — similar note found. Investigation shut down by Feds.

I wanted to ask Mac more, but he had that get out of my office light in his eyes.

“Well, it was good to see you, Mac. We’ll have to go catch a game at Candlestick sometime.” I got up to leave.

Mac opened a desk drawer and searched through it. “Oh, Tex, on your way out, could you drop this letter off for me? I’d sure appreciate it.” I took a business card from him and stuck in a pocket.

“No Problem, Mac. I’ll see you around.”

Patty was on the vid-phone and let me leave without the usual double entendres and hollow hints at future trysts. I was eager to look at the card Mac had given me but decided to wait until I reached the relative privacy of my office.

The business card was ragged and cheaply made. It read: Lucas Pernell — Investigative Reporter. The printed number had been crossed out and a new number written in pencil. It didn’t look promising, but Mac hadn’t given it to me for no reason. I punched in the number on my vid-phone.

“Bay City Mirror. Circulation. How may I help you?”

“Lucas Pernell, please.”

The video relay was off, and I assumed that the voice had been computer-generated. Amazingly, it wasn’t. “Who?”

“Pernell. Lucas Pernell.”

“Do you know the extension of the party?”

“No, I don’t. I was just given this number.”

“Please hold.”

Elevator Muzak piped through my Vid-phone speakers. An orchestral version of “Scream at the Sky” from Soundgarden’s final album. An oldie, but a goodie. A voice finally cut in. “Who are you holding for?”

“Lucas Pernell.”

“One moment, please.”

A minute or so later, the phone beeped and yet another voice popped out of my speakers. “This is Pernell.”

“Mr Pernell, my name is Tex Murphy. I’m a PI and a friend of Mac Malden. He gave me this number.”

“Is this some kind of joke? I don’t know any Mac Malden.”

Either this was a big mistake, or maybe Pernell was testing me. “Hmm… maybe I got the name wrong. Anyway I have some notes that might interest you.”

There was a short silence. “These notes… are they sharp, to the point?”

“I guess you could say that.”

“You’re right. And interested. We should meet. I’ll let you know when and where.”

Click.

I spent several hours scanning the internet for references to the Black Arrow Killer, but I couldn’t find anything. I turned off the computer and poured myself a bourbon. My eyes were dry, and my back ached. A nap sounded good. My fax machine beeped and spewed out a single sheet. I tore it off and read the words Twilight. 1 A M.

I’d never experienced the Garden of Earthly Delights that is the Twilight Lounge. It was on the outskirts of New San Francisco. Not quite reputable — not particularly scary. Like a hundred other watering holes, it followed the Lounge Code: dark, not too friendly, and always open. I stepped inside and looked around. I had a pretty good idea what a Lucas Pernell would look like. Glasses, tousled hair, herringbone jacket, khaki trousers, a cheap tie has always loosened and slightly off-centre. There were at least for Lucas Pernell’s in the bar. Fortunately, I must have been the only Tex Murphy.

“You Murphy?”

“Pernell?”

“I’m over here.”

I followed the guy to a table in the far reaches of the lounge — pass the pool tables, pass the dart board. Even past a life-size cut-out of a golden beach vixen and her sweaty beer bottle.

“What do you drink?”

“Bourbon.”

“Well, that’s a good start.”

Pernell caught a waitresses eye, held up two fingers, and pointed at the table. I pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes, shook one to the top, and pulled it out between my teeth. “Can I bum one of those?”

“Sure.” I shook up another smoke and pointed the pack toward Pernell.

We lit up as the waitress set up my first drink and Pernell’s second. My fellow bourbon drinker paid the waitress and waited for her to sway back to the bar.

“Let’s see the business card.”

I pulled out the card Mac had given me. Pernell turned it over and examined it closely. Apparently satisfied, he lit a match and held it up to the card. Fractions of a second short of burning his fingers, he dropped the smoking cinder into the ashtray.

“You said you had notes.”

I produced the two sheets of paper. Pernell first looked at them sceptically, with the air of someone whose patience is being tested. Quickly, though, his grip tightened, and his eyes began to move over the paper. After a moment he looked up at me, sharply. “How did you get these?”

“They were given to me by a client.”

“How did your client get then?

“From a stalker, apparently. What do you think?”

Pernell smiled. He carefully removed his glasses and polished them with his tie. “Look, sorry if I wasn’t too friendly just now. Most of the people I deal with fall into two groups: idiots and imbeciles. I’ve got a waiting list a mile long of crackpots desperate to waste my time. Unfortunately, it’s a necessary waste of time, sifting the grain from the chaff.” he replaced his glasses and picked up the notes. “You, my friend, are one big chunk of grain.”

I buried the smoking end of my cigarette into the black remains of Pernell’s business card. “Why don’t we pretend — for just a second — that I have no idea how important these notes are. You tell me what you know, then I help my client. Sound like a plan?”

“So you don’t know anything about the Black Arrow Killer?”

“Only What Mac Malden told me. Killed a few people in the Southwest a few years ago. Seems to have moved into the Bay area and apparently murdered a girl around here a few weeks ago. That’s all.”

Pernell handed the notes back to me. I folded them and put them back in my pocket. “Well, Malden might know more than that, and he might not. Even if he did, I doubt he tell you. He’d be stupid to.”

“Why?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Humor me.”

Pernell took a swig of bourbon. He looked at me closely, like he was sizing me up, then went on. “When the first bodies turned up in Arizona in the summer of ‘41, the local police tried to keep it off the wires. Didn’t want the bad publicity. So wasn’t until March of ‘42, when three other victims were found, that the story broke big. Turned out that the killer in all five cases had the same MO. He always sent notes to his victims before murdering them. I went down to cover the story and actually got a chance to see one of the notes. It was like these that you gave me. Exactly like these.”

“With the arrow symbol on it.”

“Right. And the block lettering — everything. Now, the police weren’t too keen on releasing the details, since this type of crime could spawn copycat murders. The black arrow symbol was referred to in reports, given the murderer the appelation of the Black Arrow Killer, but the actual symbol was never published. This way, the police would know when the actual killer was involved by this specific arrow symbol.”

“Makes sense.”

“So, anyway, the killer moved on and racked up two more victims in Nevada before the police could catch up. Finally, a girl contacted the police after receiving one of the notes. The cops moved in and made an arrest. Sources tell me that, at that point, the NSA stepped in and completely took over the investigation. Media coverage evaporated. The guy they arrested was named Leroy Kettler, though his name was never officially released.”

“But they got the wrong guy, right? I mean, the killer is still on the loose.”

“Maybe. The court held him over without bail. Before they could get a hearing, the guy hung himself in his cell. Or that was the official story. Everyone seemed satisfied that they’d gotten their man. No one bothered to ask how Kettler had gotten shoelaces into the cell. The case was closed.”

“Sounds like you don’t buy it.”

“I don’t. I had some connections at the jail. After things blew over a bit, I got in and discreetly interviewed a few people, including the inmate of the adjoining cell. He believed that kettler hadn’t committed suicide — he’d been murdered. He said that two men in suits had come to Kettler’s cell the night before he was found dead. From his description and other details, I think it’s possible, even likely, that the men were NSA agents.”

“But why would the Feds want to kill Kettler?”

“Maybe Ketter was a fall guy. I could just be a sucker for a conspiracy story, or the real killer could have been a policeman, or someone in the government. Maybe the government had a reason for getting rid of the victims. I’ve been following that angle, seeing if there’s any connection between the victims. On the other hand, maybe Kettler was the Killer, but for some reason the Feds didn’t want the case resolved. I don’t know. Regardless, there was a cover-up.”

“Mac Malden said that another victim turned up around here. How does that fit into the picture?”

“It doesn’t. The girl was a grad student at Berkeley. According to her family, she didn’t receive any of the notes associated with the other murders. Her mother is sure that she would have said something. The night she was killed, she wasn’t acting nervous or cautious. The next morning, she was found dead in her bedroom, strangled. A note was found in a desk drawer in the bedroom. As soon as the SFPD found the note, the Feds showed up and took over.”

As Pernell described the events surrounding the most recent murder, a tingling went down my spine. Unless my intuition was way off, the case was beginning to resemble a spider web. Threads, seemingly unrelated, were coming together toward an as yet an unknown axis. Fitzpatrick had told me about a girl from a nearby university. A girl who disappeared. My disbelief in coincidences had never been stronger.

“The girl… was her name Sandra?”

Pernell drain the rest of his burden. “Yeah. Collins. Sandra Collins.”

He got up from the table and excused himself. My mind was racing. What was the common denominator between Fitzpatrick, Malloy, Kettler, and this young woman, Sandra Collins? There were too few details, too many implications. I lit a cigarette. It helped, though it didn’t seem to have instant answers.

“Are you Mr Murphy?”

“Yes?”

The which has picked up the bourbon glasses and white down the table.

“Phone call for you. On the payphone… over there.”

Another noncoincidence. Someone was calling me on a payphone in a bar I’d never been in before.

“Murphy here.”

The voice was being fed through modulator. The video relay was off, of course. “Listen carefully, Mr Murphy. You’re on a very dangerous path. I want to see you reach the end of it, but there are many who would do anything to stop you. Even now, your name is reaching the ears of powerful people, people capable of removing all traces of your existence. If you fail, it will be as if you never lived a day on this earth. But there are more important things at stake than your life. Do you understand?”

I really didn’t, but I was just going along for the ride, and this guy was driving. “I’m pretty sure I do.”

“Good. In one hour and four minutes, you will be at 771 Santa Cena. There is a stairwell on the east side of the building. Go down two flights and wait by the red door. At exactly 2:45, You will hear a click. Open the door, enter, and close the door immediately. Move quickly to the third door on the left. Wait for another click, then enter the office. Check your watch. You will have exactly five minutes to search the office. There will be another click, and you will leave the office. The same thing will happen at the doorway you entered. Do you understand?”

I finished jotting down the information. “Yes. But what will happen if I don’t…”

Dial tone. I switched off the Vid-phone receiver. My PI instincts were napping on this one. Was it legitimate, or was I being set up? The mystery caller had known I was here and probably could have killed me, if he’d felt like it — but he hadn’t. That was encouraging… sort of. As much as I hated to, it seemed like the mystery caller would have to fall, provisionally, into the “Friends of Tex” category. I slipped my notebook back into my coat pocket and returned to Pernell. He’d ordered another round of bourbons, pulled out a notebook and pencil, and seemed ready to give me the third degree.

“I don’t suppose you’d tell me the name of your client.”

“Sorry. Confidential.”

“At least tell me the details of how you got the notes.”

“Wish I could. Unfortunately, it would violate my solemn PI oath.”

“How about letting me have the notes?”

I considered it. They probably weren’t going to help my investigation, but they were evidence. I wasn’t sure I should give them up. “What do you want them for?”

“Visual aids, man. This story has Pulitzer written all over it.”

“Tell you what. I’ll give you one of the notes in exchange any other information you come up with.”

“Deal.” Pernell pulled a business card from his jacket and handed it to me. “That number’s current. I know how to reach you.”

I took the card and handed over one of the notes. “I’ve got to get going. Is there anything else you think I should know?”

Pernell rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Your client is certainly in danger. She should have someone with her at all times.”

Either this guy wasn’t as bright as I thought, or I was a lot brighter than he thought. Like smart enough to tie my own shoes.

“Okay. Is there anything you know that I don’t and should know?”

“One more thing. When I was following the story in Nevada, I met a guy like you. PI. He asked a lot of questions. A week later, he had a tag on his toe. Suicide, I think.”

I threw a fifty on the table. “Thanks for the tip.”