Chapter 8:  Close to Home

The discovery of the extent and scope of the serial killer's operation changed the case irrevocably. When Steve presented his findings to Captain Blackwell, his superior was inclined to place a more senior detective in charge of such a critical and politically sensitive investigation. However, Steve argued forcefully that he should stay in control, citing the incontrovertible evidence of his progress so far. He felt a trifle guilty for claiming the credit for what he knew was very much a team effort, but he didn't think that sharing that nugget of information would bolster his contention. He truly believed that the hours of research, consideration and discussion he, Mark and their friends had invested gave them a feel for the case that professional experience alone could not duplicate and that it was their best chance of catching the killer before he took another life.

Eventually the Captain acquiesced, assigning several detectives to Steve's command. He gratefully accepted, knowing how much legwork would be involved in following all the potential leads from the newly discovered victims.

During the next week, Steve set up a two-pronged attack to the investigation. He concentrated part of his resources on Medi-Quick, trying to develop as comprehensive a list as possible of their clients from the memories of the couriers and other staff members while their computer technician tried to reconstruct at least some of the records from the damaged computer system. It was hoped that they would be able to identify all the potential victims who fit the parameters of the established pattern.

The second group worked on the mass of information accrued from the earlier murder victims, correlating the data to spot any inconsistencies or other clues as to the identity of the killer. In none of the other cities had the police made as much progress. The perp had clearly moved across the country from East to West. The detective in charge of the New York investigation had died a year back, so little progress had been made gathering information from the earliest city in which they knew the killer had operated, but Steve had spoken to the lead investigators in St. Louis and Denver who were cooperating productively.

Steve was optimistic that they would find something pertinent to prevent another murder, but, so far, they had met with several frustrations. The key seemed to lie in the medical courier services, but, in St. Louis, the courier service had been taken over by a bigger company and their earlier records were missing, and in Denver, the company had gone out of business, and so they had to follow different avenues of inquiry.

It was mind-numbing, exhausting work and, with the pressure of the next window of opportunity for the killer fast approaching, extremely stressful. Steve met with his father and friends every evening to bring them up to date on developments and to discuss any new findings, but they had been unable to contribute any more significant breakthroughs. With lives at stake, it wasn't surprising that tempers were not uniformly harmonious. On the evening of the 13th July, Jack was insistent that a general warning should be issued so that those at greatest risk would know who they were.

"The Captain would never agree to that," Steve objected. "It's totally against policy."

"So is discussing this case with civilians," Jack pointed out snidely. "But I don't see that stopping you."

"Well, I can do something about that," Steve retorted.

Mark knew that tempers were short due to frustration and stress and intervened before either of the younger men said something they would regret later. "There are reasons for that policy, so let's see how we can work round it," he suggested diplomatically.

The eagerness with which Steve seized on the suggestion hinted at his discomfort with the rules under which he was operating. "There can't be more than a few people who'll fit the pattern any one day, can there? And the killer has mostly struck during the day. We've got enough manpower to cover them, a bodyguard for each potential victim."

"That's a good idea," Amanda jumped in quickly before Jack could speak. "For a start, have we identified all possible professions that start with DO? We've got doctor, dogcatcher, dowser... How about dowager?"

"That doesn't count as a profession," Jack carped.

Amanda threw him a mock glare. "Let's see you do better," she challenged him.

"Sure," he replied confidently; but Amanda's smile grew in proportion to the silence as Jack cast around for inspiration. Finally he cried out triumphantly, "Don!"

The other three burst out laughing. "I wouldn't exactly call that a profession, except possibly in your family," Amanda scoffed.

"Besides, they tend to come with their own bodyguards," Steve pointed out.

"OK, dope addict," Jack attempted, clearly floundering.

"Dominican priest," Mark added helpfully over the derisive laughter, then, clearly warming up to the theme, he continued, "Or docent."

"Actually, that last one's not bad," Steve admitted. "We don't know how tricky this guy might decide to be in labelling his victims. He might lump visiting professors under that title."

"I've got a dictionary," Mark offered. He started to thumb through the pages. "Dock worker...doll maker....hmmm. Dolphin trainer...domestic? That's a possibility for maids or home helps. Doorman. That's all. I still think doctor is our best bet, although it could just as easily be an academic doctor, a professor, and goodness knows there's enough of those in LA."

Not long after their group brainstorming, Jack and Amanda made their farewells, yawning apologetically, and Steve and Mark were left together. This had become almost a ritual, an oasis of calm in the mayhem of their daily schedules which helped to dissolve the toxins of stress and frustration accumulated during the long days. Mark had the knack of asking just the right questions to enable his son to sort through the plethora of facts, discard the dross and focus on the essentials.

But tonight was the 13th, and already the killer might be poised to strike again, so Steve was anything but relaxed. He was wearing a definite track in the carpet, pacing back and forth. Mark watched his perambulations, noting with concern the clear evidence of sleepless nights and meals missed in the dark circles under his eyes and his more than usually lanky frame. However, Mark swallowed both paternal and professional instincts out of respect for his son's independence. Tired himself from double duty as doctor during the day and amateur detective in the evenings, he had started to doze, lulled by Steve's regular pacing, when he was startled by an abrupt question from Steve.

"Do you think Jack was right?"

It took Mark a moment to focus back on Jack's forceful opinion that the public should be informed. It was a tricky issue, and he gave his reply some consideration. "We do have enough information to possibly safeguard the next victim, but releasing the details we have would create a public panic at the idea that a serial killer is randomly murdering people according to a bizarre pattern, and just imagine the media frenzy. We're lucky they haven't put it together so far. No, I think you made a fair compromise."

His words seemed to do little to reassure, and Steve's stride lengthened, betraying an inner agitation. "I can't believe we've still got so little information. This guy can't be that good, he must have made a mistake somewhere. It's unbelievable bad luck that the courier service in Denver went out of business."

"Or maybe not." Mark looked thoughtful and fell silent, and after a moment, Steve plopped down in a chair to watch him, a twinge of excitement and hope stirring in his stomach. He'd seen that look on his father's face more than once as he was growing up, and knew it presaged a mental breakthrough of some kind.

"Why did they go out of business?" Mark asked. It was said in such a slow, pensive way that Steve wasn't sure if it was a rhetorical question, part of an internal debate, or if he really wanted the answer. To be on the safe side, he rifled through his notes, but was unable to find an explanation.

"It doesn't say. You think it is important?"

"Well, what if it isn't an unfortunate coincidence, but an indication of the killer covering his tracks?" Mark felt a strange confidence that he was on the right track, and his conviction communicated itself to Steve.

He grinned at his father, his exhaustion temporarily melting away. "It's too late to call, but I'll send an e-mail right now."

It was a promising lead, but for the next few days, detection had to give way to protection. The stress and fatigue continued to build, as Steve pushed to come up with more leads while attempting to ensure the safety of the few people that Medi-Quick was able to identify whose names and professions fit the killer's pattern. As the days progressed further into the window of time in which they expected the killer to strike, Steve felt the tension mounting unbearably, feeling a new and unwilling kinship with King Damocles of ancient Greece, waiting for the delicately poised sword of destruction to plunge down upon him. It was the afternoon of the 19th when the stroke finally fell.

Around 4:30 that afternoon, Steve found himself not far from Community General, staring grimly at the body of a young man propped up execution style behind the dumpster of a coffee shop, listening to the report of the uniformed officer who had first arrived on the scene. The restaurant owner had been able to identify the man as one of his regular customers, but Steve didn't really need to be told who and what he was. He recognized him himself as a second-year resident from the hospital – Jeff Hollowell, a young doctor whom Mark considered to have great promise. He stood there, battling the anger, the sense of failure that threatened to overwhelm him. While he took personally every death perpetrated by a killer he was tracking – it was part of what made him such a good detective – he knew that this death would hit Mark hard, and the knowledge left a particularly bitter sting.

Having gathered what information he could from the scene, he left the CSU performing their painstaking sweep of the site, and headed over to Community General to apprise his father of the death. He knew Mark would want to come and view the scene for himself, and he fervently hoped that his father's often-astonishing ability to notice and make sense of seeming inconsequentials would provide them with more to go on than was currently apparent to his own, obviously inadequate, he thought disgustedly, mind.

Steve was glad to find Mark working in his office when he arrived; he really didn't want to break the news to his dad in the midst of the commotion of the hospital corridors. As he entered the office, Mark looked up with a welcoming smile that immediately gave way to a slightly concerned questioning at the sight of his son's sombre face.

"Steve?" he asked, his voice adding the unspoken what's wrong?

"We've got another victim," Steve announced, getting straight to the point. He met Mark's gaze, knowing that his expression and tone were warning his father that the news was about to get worse. "It's Jeff Hollowell." He watched the shocked dismay flit briefly across the older man's face, and added quietly, "I'm sorry, Dad."

Mark nodded slightly, accepting his son's sympathetic understanding, as he thought of the young man whom he had expected to watch develop into the type of caring and competent physician that was so valuable in the field.

"I was just talking to him this morning," he reflected aloud. He looked up at Steve. "It must have just happened?"

Steve nodded. "A couple of kids playing hide and seek found him behind the dumpster in the back of the City Coffee Shop. The owner says that he often stopped there before or after his shifts."

Mark nodded again. "A lot of the residents do," he confirmed.

Steve watched the sadness that clouded the eyes before him, and seemed to see the lines in Mark's face deepen. The tide of anger and frustration with the case and his own inability to solve it without further loss of life swelled to unbearable proportions. "Damn," he muttered, his voice low, but vehement, his fists clenching unconsciously.

The single syllable brought Mark's gaze immediately to his son's face, and what he saw there sounded instant paternal alarms. Steve's face was lined with fatigue and stress, his body tense with anger, his expression … Mark didn't like what he saw in those normally steady blue eyes.

"Steve?" The single-word inquiry posed a multitude of questions that Steve had no trouble interpreting. The sympathy and concern he saw directed at him only served to worsen his feelings of guilt and self-recrimination.

"Maybe I should have let the captain assign this to somebody else," he said, his voice suddenly tired, his shoulders slumping. "Maybe I should have listened to Jack and recommended that we alert people to what's going on."

Knowing that uttering soothing platitudes never cut any ice with his son, Mark considered those possibilities thoughtfully before he responded.

"I don't see how anyone could have prevented this," he observed quietly. "Jeff's name wasn't even on the list Medi-Quick gave you."

"Maybe I've been wrong all along," Steve suggested disgustedly. "Maybe we don't really understand the pattern yet."

"They told us the list probably wasn't complete," Mark replied. "Jeff's must just be one of the names that they didn't find yet." He got up and moved around the desk to stand next to his son, placing a hand on the younger man's arm.

"Steve, you're being too hard on yourself. This killer has committed 23 murders throughout four cities that we know of, and this is the first time anyone's figured out his pattern. You have several leads that we're still waiting to get results from. You made the connection to Medi-Quick, and we're still getting information from them. You've accomplished more than anyone else has been able to."

Steve felt the sincerity and conviction in the clear blue eyes locked on his own penetrate the pall of darkness clouding his mood. He knew his father was unfailingly supportive, but he also knew that Mark would never soothe him with meaningless half-truths or false assurances. This didn't erase his feelings that he had failed in preventing another murder, but it did help to ease his moment of self-doubt.

"It wasn't enough for Jeff Hollowell, though," he replied. The words retained the tinge of bitterness, but the tone was one of almost resigned regret.

"You know, Steve," Mark mused thoughtfully, "I'm not sure anything you did would have saved Jeff. Even if we had alerted all doctors about the danger, there's a chance Jeff wouldn't have considered himself at much risk anyway." Steve met his eyes inquiringly. "He was always complaining about the fact that most people don't consider residents 'real' doctors," Mark explained, an ironic twist to his mouth. "And many of them don't, you know. It always drives the residents crazy."

As Steve reflected on the irony of this, another oddity in the resident's situation struck him.

"Don't most residents get their prescriptions filled here at the hospital?" he asked, a frown creasing his brow.

Eyes widening slightly, Mark picked up his son's thought instantly. "So why did he need a prescription delivery service?" It was his turn to frown in confusion. "Do you think Jeff wasn't actually part of the killer's pattern?"

"Everything about the killing was the same," Steve replied, thinking it through. "The bullet to the head, the execution-style pose … and the name and profession fit the pattern – something we haven't advertised to the public, so it couldn't be a copycat."

There was a moment of silence as both Sloans considered the possibilities. "It's possible that Jeff had a prescription for something that he preferred not to fill here," Mark suggested after a moment. "Things get around quickly in a hospital; sometimes people prefer to use an outside source if they have a condition that they don't want publicly known. Maybe we'll find something at his apartment that will tell us." He looked up at Steve, pleased to see the light of actively engaged intelligence replacing the doubt and bitterness that had dulled his son's eyes earlier.

"Okay, that's the next stop, then," Steve declared. He sent a puzzled look back at his father as Mark moved back to his desk rather than towards the door. "Aren't you coming?"

"Just need to get my jacket," Mark replied, exchanging his lab coat for it. He smiled slightly as he strode around the desk back to his son. "Does this mean you're not going to hand the case over to someone else?" he asked, glad to see the renewed determination in the detective's demeanour.

Steve surveyed him for a moment. "I don't think so," he replied seriously. "After all, I have another advantage that you didn't mention." Meeting his father's inquiring gaze, he allowed a hint of a smile to glint in his eyes. "Nobody else has the outside resources I do."

In the car on the their way to the apartment, Steve's cell phone rang. He groped for it with one hand while manoeuvring the vehicle expertly through the traffic with the other.

"Steve Sloan here......Oh, hi Bill. What have you got for me?.....Really!" He took the phone away from his mouth to tell his father, "The courier service in Denver went out of business after their computers crashed and they lost all of their client information. They lost most of their clients, too, when their orders weren't met."

Mark met his gaze with a reciprocal sparkle in his eye. "Who managed their computers?" he asked eagerly.

Steve relayed the question. "A firm called Hi-Tech. Bill, get me everything you can find on that company; this could be the break we've been looking for."

He disconnected to find Mark already dialling on his own cell phone. "Hello, Ed. It's Mark Sloan here. I need you to tell me everything you can about the company that handles your computer systems." He listened for several minutes, then disconnected after telling him they'd be right over.

"Change of destination?" Steve asked, the flippancy in the words not covering his anticipation.

"We've got him," Mark declared confidently. "Listen to this. Their computer firm is called 'Center Tech'. It's basically a one-man company, although he hires people for large jobs on a temporary basis. What's more, he didn't show up to work today." Mark paused at the frown of concentration on his son's face, a different reaction to the one he expected.

"Center Tech, I've heard or seen that recently," Steve mused. Unable to place the elusive memory, he shook it off. "That's great, Dad. He's got opportunity, access to all the records, but why? What's the motive and why such an elaborate method of selecting his victims?"

Mark shook his head, unable to find an answer. "It takes a twisted, obsessively sick mind to kill using such a precise, premeditated pattern. We'll probably get some idea as we look at his background."

Considerably heartened by the good news after the heartbreak of the afternoon, Steve threaded the car as fast as possible through the rush hour traffic. They were greeted at the door to Medi-Quick by Edward Flanagan who was looking extremely harassed. "He still hasn't showed up and there's no answer at his number, so we went through his things and found this on the top of his files," he announced, holding out a large, white envelope.

Momentarily stunned, Mark and Steve stared at the words scrawled on the outside. 'Sergeant Steve Sloan, Homicide Detective'.