“Ha, ha, very funny,” Abby smirked as she retrieved the device. “My phone isn’t that archaic. I like using it. And remember, I have my iPad when I need the web.” Smiling, she opened it to make sure it was still working. The smile froze on her face as she looked at the keys, her finger tracing over them lightly. “I think I figured it out. Hand me your phone, Sandra.” Her friend reached over and placed her phone in Abby’s hands. She read the texts once again and studied the keys on her own phone.
“What is it?” Sandra asked. “What did you figure out?”
“You couldn’t have known this, because your phone is newer and has a QWERTY keyboard. But mine is older, like a typical office phone. It’s just like the cell phone the killer sent you, right?”
“I’m not following you. What are you talking about? What did I not see?”
“I pray sic,” Abby said, holding her phone out to Sandra. “It’s the first letter of each city – but not exactly. It’s what he would have typed out using a keypad like mine. Don’t you get it? The decoder he mentioned in the texts was the phone he sent you!” Sandra took the phone out of Abby’s hands and stared at the keys. Suddenly, a wave of recognition washed over her face.
“Oh, my god. How could I have been so stupid? It’s almost too obvious!” Sandra began to hit the keys. “H, S, S, C. When you put it in the phone it autocorrects itself to say ‘I spa’. But when you add the Y, it comes out to ‘I pray’.”
“And the Y must stand for the next city!” Abby said, her face glowing under the sudden epiphany. “But there isn’t a town around here that starts with Y.”
“WXYZ…It has to be W, for Windsor. The next murder is targeted for Windsor!” Sandra shouted, jumping up and clutching Abby’s arms. “But what about the next three letters? We figured out ‘I pray’, but what about ‘sic’?”
“The S could stand for several options. Santa Rosa, Penngrove, Petaluma, Rohnert Park…”
“Before we go any further, we should probably talk to a criminologist and check to see if our theory even pans out. I’ll seek one out first thing in the morning.” Sandra stood up and gave her friend a hug. “Abby, I feel like we’re so much closer to the end of this thing!”
“I know! We might even stop this creep.”
“We may still be a ways from that. Right now I’d just like to know the answers to the other cities. But if we’re right, there’s only one city around here that the Y could represent. It has to be Windsor.”
Next Time: “Tempting Offer.” Brown gives Sandra a revealing, off-the-record tip about the killer’s habits.
Crissi Dillon is the Events Queen of 707.pressdemocrat.com and the mom extraordinaire behind SantaRosaMom.com, the Press Democrat’s community for parents. When she’s not carpooling kids to the baseball field, she’s working on her aspiring novel or writing stories about her family at her personal blog winecountrymom.com.
Previously: Abby and Sandra decode the riddle: “I Pray Sic.”
Chapter 11 – Tempting Offer
By CHRIS COURSEY
Sandra sank into the lumpy sofa at the coffee shop across from her office, and opened the newspaper on her lap.
“Killer’s code points to Windsor as next crime scene.”
The headline screamed across the top of the front page. She felt a little blush of pride, and then a little flip of her stomach. She hoped to hell that she and Abby were right about the code.
Her phone buzzed on the table next to her latte. By now, she knew the number. It was him.
“Way to go. Saved a girl on the Town Green. Now tell me the next city or someone else dies.”
She stared at the screen. It dawned on her that she had been drawn into a game she didn’t want to play. What if she got it wrong? For that matter, what if she got it right? Where did this end?
She typed the word into her phone, tentatively: “petaluma?” She hit “send.”
“Hello, Sandra.”
She startled, kicked the table and watched a small wave of brown latte splash out of her cup. Det. Zach Brown stood over her, a little closer than she liked, and grinned.
“Feeling a little jumpy?” he asked. Sandra looked away from his smirk.
“He’s watching me,” she said, gazing out the big pane of glass toward Mendocino Avenue.
“That’s part of what I want to talk to you about,” Brown said, pulling off his jacket and hanging it over the back of a chair. “Lemme grab a cup of joe and I’ll be right back.”
She watched his broad back as he walked over to the counter, wondering if a big, strong detective ever experienced that creepy feeling she kept getting on the back of her neck when she thought of the killer spying on her. As the tingling crept up from under her collar once again, her phone buzzed in her hand. Again, she startled, kicked the table and sent another latte tsunami over the rim of her cup.
“Guess again but do not text. Put it in the paper”
“Fan mail?” Brown asked as he sat in the straight-back chair next to the couch.
Sandra shoved the phone into her bag. “My editor,” she lied. “He wants to know what I’ve got for tomorrow.”
“And…?”
“She hesitated. She figured that Brown was reading every text that came out of the cell phone now in the killer’s hands, but he hadn’t seen this one – yet. Brown didn’t know the killer had just credited her for saving the life of a potential victim in Windsor and had given her the challenge of stopping another killing in – where? Penngrove? Rohnert Park? ... Maybe she should tell him, but for now she was enjoying the feeling of knowing something the detective had yet to find out.”
“I think I know what you should do,” Brown said.
“You do?” she said, feeling like a kid coming home late after a night of partying, only to find her father at the door with a knowing look in his eye.
But Brown wasn’t reading her mind. He had his own agenda.
“Can we talk off the record here?” he said.
She locked eyes with him for a moment. “OK.”
“OK. You know the guy is using that phone, because he’s texting you. But what you might not know is that he’s turning the phone on for a minute or two each day.”
“That’s what you want off the record? Give me a break. Who cares?”
“Sandra, we want him to use the phone a little more. That’s what is off the record. And this is off the record too – I think the best way to make that happen is for you to give him a call.”
“Right,” she said, laying on the sarcasm. But the truth was, she’d already considered it – briefly. Then came that text message: “You look good in your blue suit.”
“I don’t want to get that close to this guy,” she said. “I can already feel his eyes on the back of my neck. I don’t want his voice in my ear.”
“I thought you said you needed a story for tomorrow,” Brown teased. “I thought you were a hard-boiled reporter. This guy loves the attention you’re giving him; I’ll bet he would fall all over himself to tell you all about how smart he is and how he’s got us cops all tied up in knots.”
“Why do you want me to do this? Are you tracing that phone?”
Brown sat up straight, his face sober. “Kid, no matter how far off the record we are, I can’t divulge investigative detail or technique. I’ve got to keep that strictly in-house.”
“OK, Detective,” said Sandra, mimicking his official mien. “Then let’s go back on the record. Here’s my response to your proposal: I can’t divulge journalistic detail or technique. If you want to know what I’m doing, read it in the paper.”
She grabbed her bag and stood up to leave.
“C’mon Sandra – don’t be like that,” Brown whined. “Are you gonna call him?”
“I know you’re already monitoring this guy’s phone. Keep listening. If I call, you’ll know.”
“OK, be that way,” Brown said, picking up the paper Sandra had left on the table. “But Sandra, do me one favor, all right?”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful.”
Next Time: “Sinking Feeling.” Sandra demands an interview with the killer.
Chris Coursey worked for more than 30 years as a daily newspaper journalist, and was an award-winning news columnist for the Press Democrat from 1999 to 2007. He has lived in Santa Rosa since 1980. Follow him on his blog: Coursey. https://www.pressdemocrat.com/personalia/ccoursey
Previously: Brown tells Sandra the killer would jump at the chance for a phone interview.
Chapter 12 – Sinking Feeling
By PAUL GULLIXSON
Sandra sipped her Masala chai latte, took out her phone and then, mindlessly, set it back down. She was about to text a dead man’s cell. Dead man’s cell, she thought. Sounds like a B-rated movie, or a song from one of those heavy-metal bands her half-brother belonged to long ago, when it seemed his primary objective in life was to be loud and unbridled by any need to be in line, in step, or, unfortunately, in tune.
It was exactly because of her having to reside with that amplified rage for so many years that Sandra now craved the peaceful, cerebral confines of a place like “By the Mugg.”
She looked around. Yes, this café across from the office was her refuge. It was owned by a former probation officer, Jared Mugg, whose Ukranian girlfriend used to design high-end tasting rooms and was a partner in the business before she left him for a cabinet maker in Forestville. But Mugg was left with a serene place. The comfortable chairs, the smell of mocha java mixed with soft jazz and hushed conversations of tables all around. Yes, this was Sandra’s cave. A clean, well-lighted cave.
But it brought no refuge today. There was nothing subdued or satisfying about what she was about to do. She was going to contact a murderer, and she had no idea whether what she was proposing made sense from any number of perspectives, not the least of which was her own safety. But she knew she had reached a point of no return, that point when she was about to do something impetuous and potentially foolhardy. Like the time years earlier when she suddenly leaped from the pier near the Santa Cruz Boardwalk late on a moonless night, only to tell her horrified-yet-relieved friends as she sloshed ashore minutes later that she just knew it “had to be done” to make that summer memorable.
She began thumb-typing. “No more riddles,” she wrote. “Talk to me on record. Or I am done, off story.”
As soon as she pressed the “send” button, regret set in. She needed leverage. But was she pushing him too far? She was dealing with a killer, who appeared to be only using her for publicity. But there was a haunting unknown about what was transpiring, a deep fear that was starting to set in.
She suddenly found herself back in the cold water beneath the Santa Cruz pier. What she never told her friends about that night was that when she plunged into the darkness, she landed in a large kelp bed and quickly found herself so hopelessly tangled in the blades that she had no movement in her legs and, combined with the weight of her laden fleece jacket, was sinking into the inky blackness of Monterey Bay. It was a terrifying moment.
Then guided by something in her memory - perhaps from a lesson about sea otters and kelp or just learning the “dead man’s float” in swim class - she stopped struggling, stretched out her arms and let her buoyancy carry her to the surface. Once there, she took a deep breath and stared into the night sky, thinking about redemption and the obscure things that can save lives, things like otters and dead men.
From that point on, Sandra had a reputation, one she cherished, as being both fearless and unpredictable. But the experience left her with a haunting reminder of that thin line that separates invigorating spontaneity and the kind of foolishness that can leave you sinking.
She picked up her drink and, as she exited, decided not to tell her editor what she had done. No need to give him the opportunity to second guess.
As soon as she was at her desk, her phone squeaked with the arrival of a text message.
“AYOR today 5”
Her pulse quickened. She called out, “Smalls, what’s A-Y-O-R?”
Brett Small, the technology reporter in the next cubicle looked up, headphones on. He lifted his index finger, indicating he was on the phone. She mouthed a “Sorry,” but his head was down, and his hand was scribbling. He lifted a pad of paper. It read: “At Your Own Risk.”
That afternoon, Sandra wrote out a couple of news briefs, lied to her editor that she couldn’t reach the people she needed in order to finish her story on graffiti abatement and grabbed an early dinner. By 5 p.m., she was back at her computer, her palms already sweaty. She had written out some questions, but she knew it unlikely he was going to be straight with her. That’s not this creep’s style. He would make her twist and turn. But she knew anything she got from this guy, even his evasiveness, was material and would move the story.
Her phone rang.
“Newsroom,” she said, forgetting it was her cell. “Uh, Cordero.”
The caller did not respond right away. There was a deep breath.
“How stupid do you think I am?”
The tone was quick, cold and uncompromising. She was not ready for this.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Why did you want this? Whose idea was it?” His voice was also not what she expected. She was anticipating something deep and rough, like that of a smoker. But this one was clear and firm, almost professorial.
“The interview? Mine of course,” she lied. She swallowed.
No response. Sandra wondered where he was calling from. She strained to catch any background noises.
He let out a short, gasping sort of laugh.
“I didn’t expect this,” he said. “You don’t get it, do you? This is not a game.”
Her right hand, still on the keyboard, started to shake. “What the hell are you talking about,” she responded angrily, trying to compose herself as much as to retake ground. “You’re the one playing games.”
The voice took another deep breath. “This is going to cost you. One more person is going to die, and it’s on you – you and your detective friend who’s listening in on this call in the impotent hope that this will help track me down.”
“He’s not . . .” Sandra started to say, but then caught herself.
“You failed,” he said. “You failed a lot of people.”
The phone went dead.
That cold and clammy feeling quickly enveloped Sandra as she set down the phone. She felt herself sinking again, down to an all-encompassing fear. And this time there would be no easy way out.
Next Time: “Death Watch.” The killer slips away. Brown fears he’ll seek revenge.
Paul Gullixson is the editorial director at The Press Democrat. Read his columns at https://www.pressdemocrat.com/personalia/pgullixson .
Previously: The killer accuses Sandra of being a shill for the cops.
Chapter 13 – Death Watch
By JOHN HENDRICKSON
“The phone is active!” Roberto Nunez announced to the team assembled at the upstairs violent crimes investigations unit. “Another text. This one says ‘AYOR today 5.’ Who knows what that means?”
Detective Zach Brown looked at the befuddled faces in the conference room. It was Officer Ransom who hazarded the first guess. “At Your Own Risk?” she offered, more asking than telling.
Detective Rusty McCaughn blurted, “OMG! The killer is going to call today at 5 o’clock.” Brown gave him a disapproving glare.
“Are we really catching a break here?” Brown wondered aloud. “OK, we know when he’s going to call Cordero again. That’s good news, right? It’s still a long shot, but we can post some rapid response teams along the main corridors in the county and try to nab this guy.”
“How’s this going to work?” Ransom asked. “Nothing says he needs to be in the county when he makes the call – or that he’s even going to call from Spittleheimer’s phone.”
Brown suddenly realized his tunnel vision. “We have to get a ‘tap & trace‘ for Cordero??
?s phone, just in case he uses a different phone. Call Judge Roberts’ chambers. It’s Thursday, so she’s the duty judge for warrants.”
Brown felt pretty confident Judge Roberts would grant his warrant to tap Sandra’s telephone and trace the incoming calls. She was the second former dean of Empire College of Law to win the bench in as many county elections. For some reason, it seemed to Brown the academic types were just more predictable than the typical lawyers that vied for those spots. He was not disappointed. Judge Roberts signed the warrant later that day – but the judge sent the detective a clear message by writing in pen on the warrant, “Expires midnight, Friday.” If the killer didn’t call Sandra within the next 36 hours, Brown would have to go back to the judge – on a Saturday.
Despite all the inner turmoil about what could go wrong, teams were deployed strategically in the county and at 5 p.m., Brown actually felt rewarded to hear Nunez say, “Well, he’s nothing if not punctual.” Spittleheimer’s phone was active and on the grid.
Barely over a whisper, McCaughn quoted the fictional detective Sherlock Holmes (quoting Shakespeare), “The game is afoot.” Nobody could have guessed how prophetic that statement was.
“What? Annadel? Are you kidding me?” Nunez practically shouted at the operator. He swung his head toward his colleagues. “He’s somewhere in the state park.”
Brown turned to a nearby county map and put his finger on the words “Annadel State Park.” Nestled along the southeastern edge of Santa Rosa, the popular haven featured 5,100 acres of hilly, forested parkland, most of it accessible only by bike, foot or horseback. “Can they pinpoint a location?” he asked.
“In there?” McCaughn asked. “That’s like finding a needle in a stack of needles.”
“There’s still a chance if she can keep him on the line long enough,” said Brown. “Keep Henry 1 headed for downtown and move up the Highway 12 east team.”
“Whatever you say.”
Half a minute later, Nunez raised a hand. “He’s ended the call. It’s over.”
The after-analysis painted a pretty clear picture of what happened. The conversation with Sandra lasted 51 seconds. In that time Henry 1, the Sheriff’s helicopter, flew the length of Runway 14 at the Charles M. Schultz Airport before it was considered futile to fly any further. Those 5,119 feet made little difference. The cell tower technicians were able to triangulate the source of the transmission in the park - the dam at Lake Ilsanjo. From there the killer could have walked – or even mountain biked – in a dozen different directions, all downhill and all under the cover of trees. It would have made little difference if Henry 1 had been directly overhead.