February 15th, 7:30 AM
Harris lay back against the pillows, glancing once again at the handcuffs affixing his hands to the bed rails, and then at the uniformed deputy seated just inside the doorway. He knew that there was at least one other, possibly more, in the hallway, and had no doubts that at least one of his former colleagues was still somewhere in the building as well.
"Pluth the fucking FBI, of course," he muttered, his missing front teeth, along with the stitches in his swollen lips, giving him an unaccustomed lisp. "Bathtards won't be able to resist hamming it up in front of the damn preth, telling everybody how they took down the big, bad therial killer. Glory-hogging prickth."
He experimentally rattled his restraints, wincing at the bolt of pain that shot through his injured arm. The doctors had been forced to enlarge the wound caused by the arrow in order to remove the wickedly barbed head from his flesh, and since the pain medication he had been given was beginning to wear off, that injury was actually causing him more discomfort than the bullet wound in his calf.
Fortunately, they had left the call button within his reach, and he pressed it with his thumb, not releasing it until a burly male nurse appeared in the doorway, accompanied by one of the FBI agents. "You don't have to hold the button down, we can hear it very clearly at the desk," the nurse informed him. "What do you need?"
"I could uthe some more painkillers, and I really need to take a pith right now, if somebody can unfathen me from the bed so I can go to the john."
The nurse turned to look at the agent next to him, who said, "Go ahead and do your job, get him whatever he's supposed to be taking, if it's that time. We'll take care of the rest." They both left the room, and the deputy rose from his chair, placing himself between the door and the bed.
Fully aware of what this meant, he sighed, abandoning the faint hope he had been nurturing of being able to overpower whoever released him and making his escape from the facility. After a remarkably brief wait, the first agent returned, now accompanied by a second, who held a mass of thick chain draped over one arm. The nurse followed a moment later, and cautiously approached the bed, holding a syringe in one gloved hand.
Harris offered the man a wry grin, rattling the handcuffs against the metal rails to demonstrate his essential helplessness. "Relaxth, my man. Even if I could get looth, you're the latht perthon in this place I'd want to hurt. That thing in your hand is my betht friend right now."
The nurse injected him with the medication and stepped away, allowing the FBI agent to bring the restraints to the bed. With a weapon trained on him from either side of the bed, Harris offered no resistance as shackles were fastened around his ankles, and the chain was pulled under his body to be fastened around his waist. Only after this had been done were the handcuffs around his wrists opened, one at a time, allowing the agent to replace them with the shackles already attached to the waist chain.
Once this was done, he was finally allowed to swing himself from the bed and hobble to the bathroom, where he glared at the deputy as he entered the room behind him. "Seriouthly? I'd like to pith in private, if you don't mind."
"Now, you know better than that, Detective," one of the agents said from the doorway, placing a sarcastic emphasis on the last word. "You're in custody now, so you don't get any privacy. And once you go to prison, the whole cell block will be able to watch you take a shit, so you may as well get used to an audience."
"Fine, then. If you guyth get off on watching me take a whiz, be my guethts."
After he had finished, and washed his hands, he shuffled back into his room, only to find Garrett Sanger, Yesenia Pruitt, and Dean Bledsoe standing near the bed. Sanger and Pruitt both appeared to be on the knife-edge of exhaustion, while the commander was not only alert, but visibly angry, glaring at Harris with his lip curled into a contemptuous sneer.
"I hope you feel up to traveling, Mr. Harris," Bledsoe stated, gesturing to a pile of fabric which had been placed on the end of the bed. "Because as soon as we can get you changed, you'll be heading back to LA for formal charges."
"Gee, Chief, I figured thith county would call dibth, thince I'm already here."
"Oh, there has been plenty of discussion on the matter," Yesenia Pruitt retorted. "And your... activities here are quite probably what you'll be charged with first, since the Federal government usually likes to pull rank." Noting the puzzled expression that crossed his face, she chuckled slightly and said, "Oh, come on now! You're not really going to stand there and tell us that you went to all of the trouble to Google a map of the area, and program the location of Mr. Frazier's cabin into your GPS, and didn't notice that Cachuma Lake is actually located in the Los Padres National Forest, are you? And since Los Padres is administered by the National Parks Service, it's considered Federal land, which puts you under their jurisdiction."
"That's right, Keith," Sanger chimed in. "If I remember correctly, you're currently facing federal arson charges, two kidnapping charges, three counts of attempted murder, and one count of capital murder for the death of one Dexter Goldfarb, not even taking your earlier crimes into consideration."
"I have no fucking idea who thith Goldfarb person ith, and at motht, you've got me on the arthon and maybe the Malveaux broad. So I have no idea where you get three attempted."
"Mr. Goldfarb was the fellow whose face you blew off at the cell-phone tower," Pruitt replied. "And the other two attempted murder charges are for firing at Ashley Purdy, and for the bullet you put in Detective Weintraub's shoulder. So with these charges, on top of everything else, you may be looking at more time in lockup than the damn Green River Killer."
Bledsoe lifted his arm, casting an impatient glance at his watch. "Okay, now that we've got that covered, do ya think maybe someone can get him out of the restraints long enough to get dressed, so we can get on the road?"
Everyone in the room placed a hand on their weapons, and Sanger moved to stand in front of the windows, as the agent released his former colleague from the chains. Once he was free, Bledsoe gestured toward the bed with his pistol, indicating the clothing, which consisted of a pair of boxers and a prison-issue jumpsuit. Harris donned the undergarment, and picked up the jumpsuit between his thumb and forefinger, looking at it as if it were contaminated. "You really want me to wear thith? Couldn't you have brought one of my thuits? Or some of my hockey clothes, at leatht."
"Oh, of course! I'll have somebody get right on that," Bledsoe retorted, sarcasm fairly dripping from his words. "I'm sorry to have to burst your little bubble of self-absorption, but you sure as hell aren't getting any special treatment! So you can either get your ass into that jumpsuit, or you can just walk into the courthouse with it waving in the breeze out the back of that hospital gown, I don't particularly give a fuck which. You've got one minute to make up your mind, starting now."
Harris knew the other man well enough to know that, in his current mood, he would have no qualms about sending him out in front of the media in his current humiliating state of undress, so he reluctantly stepped into the blazing-orange garment, then permitted himself to be shackled once again. When that was done, the deputy opened the door, allowing the Los Angeles detectives and FBI agents to lead their prisoner into the hall, surrounding him as they made their way through the building toward a service elevator.
The plan was to avoid the public, and hopefully the press, as much as possible, and to leave the building through an employee exit in the rear. Bledsoe had already directed the officers who had accompanied him to park the transport van near this door, to minimize the chances of being ambushed by either the media or any friends or relatives of the victims. This strategy was, however, proven to be only a partial success as they reached the ground floor and were forced to cross a portion of the main lobby to pick up Harris' release paperwork and prescriptions.
As Sanger and Pruitt conferred with the nurse, the main entrance opened, admitting a large group of people, one of whom was in a wheelchair. They began to cross the lobby, but stopped abruptly when they spotted the other group, and Harris realized that the occupant of the chair was Ashley Purdy, who abruptly pulled away from his companions and began to move toward Harris and the others. Bledsoe noticed this, and quickly stepped forward, earning a sarcastic grin from Ashley.
"Nothing to worry about, I couldn't do anything to the fucker right now, even if I could get to him," Ashley observed. "I just wanted to admire y'all's handiwork up close."
He then turned back to face Harris, his lip curling up in a sneer as he raked his gaze from the larger man's feet to his face. "Now, that's a good look for you. I just wish I could get a picture, to commemorate this moment."
Harris attempted to return the sneer, but his attention was diverted when one of Ashley's companions, a tall, lanky young man in a Cincinnati Bengals jersey, held up his phone. "No worries, bro, I've got you covered. I'll send it to you when you get yours back," he said in a surprisingly deep, raspy voice.
This caused Bledsoe to raise a finger in a "pause" gesture and dig into his jacket pocket. After a moment, his hand emerged holding two phones, which he handed to Ashley. "Here you go, son. And here's Ms. Malveaux's as well, if you'd be so kind as to return it to her. Oh, and it would be greatly appreciated if you'd refrain from sharing that photo with anyone. Until we get him formally charged, at least."
"Hadn't crossed my mind. I was actually thinking more along the lines of having it printed up and framed," Ashley responded, before offering Harris another withering glare. "But seriously, I have to say that I've never seen anybody more suited to this style, you really should consider sticking with it."
"I couldn't agree more," another voice chimed in, and they all turned to see Irv Weintraub coming toward them with his arm supported in a sling. "Nice bling you got goin' there, Keith."
"Get fucked, Irv!" his former partner growled, earning a laugh from the older man.
"Nah, I think you're the one that should probably be worrying about that," Weintraub replied cheerily. "You're a decent lookin' guy, and you keep yourself in shape, so you'll probably be the closest thing to Tyra Banks those guys have seen in quite awhile. You may be in for one hell of a ride, buddy. Literally. And to tell you the God's-honest truth, that amuses the bejesus out of me."
He then took everyone completely by surprise by walking across the lobby to Ashley and extending his hand. When the younger man accepted the handshake, the detective said, "I heard about what happened to your lady friend, and it's a damn shame. Tell her I hope everything works out for her, willya?"
Ashley nodded, then rolled his chair toward the elevators, with his friends following close behind. Sanger and Pruitt then rejoined the group, and they continued toward the service exit, eventually reaching the vehicle. Once there, Harris was strapped into a seat in the rear of the van, and two FBI agents joined him there. And as they seated themselves across from him, where they would have an unobstructed view, he saw that they were armed with both stun batons and high-powered rifles.
"Damn, boyth! You planning on hunting thome bear when you finith your thift?"
"Just sit there and shut up!" one of them barked. "If you're planning to run your mouth all the way to the airport, don't, or I'll put a charge on your ass myself."
The other said nothing, but fixed him with a flat stare that was somehow more unnerving than his partner's open hostility, and caused Harris to settle back against the side of the van. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes so he didn't have to look at the agents, but as he did, Ashley Purdy's words from the previous day forced themselves to the forefront of his mind.
"You have no control of anything, and you never will again."
While he still refused to acknowledge that the latter might be true, he had to admit that he was currently at the mercy of his former colleagues, which nagged at him like a loose tooth. He was accustomed to not only having his life arranged to his convenience, but to being able to exert that control on others when he chose, and it galled him nearly beyond comprehension to be subject to the dictates of others.
"I'll have to call Lee when we get back to LA, have him get me a good lawyer," he thought. "Hopefully he can find one who understands the importance of what I'm doing, but if not, I guess I'll have to settle for one who's willing to do what he needs to do to earn his pay."
Within minutes they had reached the airport, and they hustled him into the waiting plane, closing the doors mere seconds ahead of the arrival of several television news crews, who had somehow found out about their plans. As the pilot prepared for takeoff, they looked out the windows, watching as airport security hustled the reporters away from the runway.
"Wonderful," Sanger sighed. "If they figured this out, I'll bet a year's salary that it's going to be like the fucking Ringling Brothers Circus when we get to the jail."
"I don't think you'd get anybody to bite on that one, we all know you're right," Weintraub informed him from across the aisle.
Bledsoe turned, seemingly to reply, but was interrupted by a high-pitched shriek which seemed to emanate from his pocket. As he reached inside, Sanger offered a lopsided grin and said, "So you let your kid set your tones, too, huh? Artoo-Detoo getting shot by the Tie Fighter, right?"
"Yeah, that would be the one, my youngest daughter is obsessed with those movies. And I didn't exactly let her, she just decided that it would be a nice surprise. She got my wife's, too. The first time Chewbacca roared from the nightstand, she almost fell out of bed."
He glanced at the display, and his eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline as he read. After a moment, he extended the device toward Sanger. "Take a look at this, Garrett, and tell me what you think."
Sanger studied the text thoughtfully, then handed back the phone. "Y'know, most times I'd say not just no, but hell no, but this time it doesn't sound like such a bad idea. It might actually get us somewhere."
"Yeah, you could be right. It's a bit unorthodox, but we'll give it a try." Bledsoe typed a response to the text, then put away the phone and settled back in his seat.
Even though he knew they were likely talking about him, Harris resisted the urge to ask about the conversation, refusing to give them the satisfaction of realizing that he was the least bit curious about whatever they were plotting. Instead he leaned back in his seat, making himself as comfortable as the restraints would allow, and closed his eyes as the aircraft left the ground. Pretending to doze, he decided to use the flight time to organize his defense strategy, to ensure that he could clearly outline the salient points to his lawyer, when he acquired one.
This was something that he had considered almost from the moment that he had begun his mission. Even though he had been confident that he would be able to avoid detection, his experiences in law enforcement had shown him how many otherwise brilliant criminals had been tripped up by the smallest overlooked detail, and had driven home the need to be prepared for even the most improbable outcome. So he had decided that in the event that he were ever caught, he would offer the simplest defense available: the truth.
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9:25 AM
"Really? You couldn't ditch the bastards this time, the way you did on the way out?" Harris groused as they loaded him into the back of another transport van. "You just had to parade me in front of those bloodsuckers so they can plaster my face all over TV and the internet, huh?"
"Oh, come on, you know the drill," Weintraub shot back. "It's not like you ain't gonna be the lead story on every newscast in the state right now, so why the hell does it matter when they start?"
"He's right, Keith, you might as well get used to it," Sanger added. "The chief had a press conference yesterday after we took Dolly Lowell out of your basement, so everybody already knows who you are. We're not having any of that 'Oh, he's a cop, let's try to sweep it under the rug,' bullshit, so you might as well hold your head up high and smile pretty for the cameras when we get to the courthouse, since you claim to be so fucking proud of all the shit you've done."
He glared at the lieutenant, and attempted to make himself more comfortable on the seat, which had been made more challenging with the addition of a bulletproof vest to the orange jumpsuit and shackles. As the vehicle began to move, he found a tolerable position, and spent the drive through downtown Los Angeles deliberating the requirements he planned to have his brother seek out in potential attorneys, as well as how to handle his impending appearance before the judge. He also reflected on Sanger and Weintraub's comments regarding the media, and began to give serious consideration to the idea of actually offering a statement, and letting them make the public aware of how he planned to handle the charges being brought against him.
Traffic was surprisingly light, so they arrived at the Federal courthouse fairly quickly. The driver circled around the building, avoiding the crowd that had gathered in front of the entrance, and pulled into an interior parking area in the basement. Harris was surprised to realize that he was actually somewhat disappointed by this development, since he had actually warmed to the idea of using the media to help everyone understand why his work was so necessary.
As they rode up in the elevator, he anticipated being led directly to the courtroom, as was the custom in major cases, but was somewhat puzzled when they stopped on the floor below, and stepped out into a hallway with numerous doors along the entire length. His confusion increased when one of the doors opened, and Paul MacDevitt stepped out, closing it behind him. He paused, waiting for the group to approach, then said, "I explained everything, so let's see how it goes before the judge gets here."
"What are you up to, anyway?" Harris queried suspiciously.
"We've got some people who'd like to have a word with you before the arraignment, Keith," MacDevitt replied. "I had to clear this with not only the mayor, but several senior Federal officials, so don't do something stupid."
The police chief reopened the door and leaned inside, saying "All right, he's here. But I can only give you maybe five minutes with him. And no touching is permitted, sorry."
Another voice, somewhat muffled, replied, "Oh, that should be more than enough, Chief. Thanks."
Harris smirked faintly, thinking, Well, maybe Lee already got me a lawyer. At least now I can have him read in before the arraignment, so he knows how to handle the plea.
MacDevitt moved aside, and the guards moved Harris toward the open doorway. He stepped into the room, and as the door closed behind him, he was startled to see not an attorney, but Lee himself, along with their father. Forgetting the chief's "no touching" edict, he moved to embrace Martin, and was stunned when the old man instantly backed his chair away, a look of profound sadness seemingly etched into his features.
He glanced at his brother, who appeared not sad, but utterly furious, his face a virtual mask of cold rage. This was so unfamiliar, such a contrast to his normally cheerful, easy-going demeanor, that Harris involuntarily stepped back from the younger man. Telling himself that this was simply a reaction to seeing him shackled, he forced a smile onto his face, and said, "Hey, ith gonna be fine, guyth. If you can talk to thum of the people you know, and find me a good lawyer, I can hopefully poth bail by tomorrow. Then we..."
He was cut off when Lee slammed his hand down onto the table and shouted, "You honestly think I'm going to help you try to get out of here? After my son and his friends had to watch the paramedics take away a woman you had chained in your goddamn basement? I'd sooner remove my own appendix with a rusty hacksaw! And then to find out that you've been killing innocent people for years, when you're supposed to be helping them? Who the hell even are you?"
Stung, he retorted, "Innothent, my ath! They were useleth! Hookers, drug dealers, pimps, and weaselly little gang-bangers, thath what they were! In and out of the thystem, diverting rethources that could have been used for people who actually deserved them, juth to get thpit out onto the street so they could do it all over again. People juth like the fucker who killed Tracy and the Pendleton boy, and the resthtaurant manager, what was hith name? Oh, Mr. Luo, that wath it! And irresponsible trampth like our mother. So how can you thand here and try to call any of those lowlifth innothent, Lee?"
"Because even if you can manage to justify that in your mind, it doesn't explain the things you've done to anyone else," Martin interjected. "So why don't you tell me why you set off the bomb at that restaurant, and killed an old man who had never been in trouble a day in his life, and was actually known to contribute surplus food to homeless shelters and food banks? Or that poor restaurant hostess! Did you know that was her first day back at work after maternity leave, Keith? You left a two-month old baby to grow up without her mother, does that make you feel good? And your own co-worker, too. How the hell did she fall into your definition of 'useless'?"
As he tried to put together an answer that the old man would accept, Lee was suddenly almost nose-to-nose with him, his face twisted into an enraged snarl. "And while you're at it, why don't you tell us how you feel knowing that my son is on his way to see a psychologist as we speak? He's not only traumatized by what he saw, he's somehow become convinced that it's his fault that you fucking slaughtered those people at the movie studio! All because you think that you have the right to play God and decide who deserves to live and who doesn't!"
He stepped back, and began moving toward the door, pausing as his hand touched the knob. After taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, his voice was calmer as he stated, "Unless they call us to testify at your trial, this is the last time you'll see me, or the kids, Keith. As far as I'm concerned from this minute on, you no longer exist."
He jerked the door open, then looked back at Martin. "Are you coming, Dad?"
The elder Kimble wheeled his chair toward the door, pausing just before he reached it to gaze up at the shackled figure standing before him. "I'd always hoped I wouldn't have to do this again in my life," he said sadly. "I guess I knew it was a possibility, but I never expected it to happen this way."
"What are you talking about, Dad? What didn't you want to do again?"
"To mourn the loss of another child," the old man replied, his voice quivering. "I lost one at the age of eighteen to a senseless crime, and now I've lost another the same way, because my son died the first time you took an innocent life. I thought I'd raised you to be a decent man, but I obviously failed miserably. You're someone I don't know anymore, and quite frankly, I don't believe I want to. Goodbye, Keith."
Harris stood in stunned silence as Martin followed his son into the hallway, and then Dean Bledsoe stepped into the room, along with a pair of uniformed patrolmen. "Okay, the judge is in the building. Time for you to face the music, so let's move."
He allowed himself to be led away, still shocked by his family's reaction. And as he shuffled along, it occurred to him that no matter how badly things turned out for him when he finally went to trial, any punishment he suffered there would be insignificant in comparison to the one he had just been given.