WMC - First to Die

Chapter 111

AS HE SAT SHACKLED TO THE SEAT of the police van on the way back from Napa, Nicholas Jenks watched the impassive eyes of the patrolman across from him. He plotted, schemed. He wondered how much it would take to buy his freedom. One million? Two million? After all, what did the fool take home? Forty grand a year? He figured the steely-eyed officer was someone above reproach, whose commitment to his duty was unquestioned. If he were writing it, that's who he would have put in the car with him. Five million, then. He smirked. If he were writing it. That notion possessed a cold, punishing irony for him. He had written it. Jenks shifted in his restraints- wrists cuffed, torso strapped to the seat. Only minutes earlier, he had stood in the redbrick courthouse in Santa Rosa while the prosecutor in her little Liz Claiborne suit pointed her finger at him. Over and over, she accused him of things only a mind as cultivated as his would think up and do. All he could do was stare coldly while she accused him of being this monster. Sometime, he'd like to lock her in the law library and show her what he was really capable of. Jenks caught a glimpse of the sky and the sun-browned hills through the narrow window in the rear door and tried to get a fix on their bearings. Novato. Just hitting Marin. He pressed his face to the steel restraining wall. He had to get out. If he were writing it, there would always be a way out. He looked at the guard. So what was the story, Joe Friday? What happened next? "You married?" he asked. The policeman stared through him at first, then he nodded. "Kids?" "Two." He nodded again, even breaking a slight smile. No matter how hard they tried to resist, they were always fascinated to talk with the monster. The guy who killed the honeymooners. They could tell their wives and friends, justify the miserable six hundred a week they brought home. He was a celebrity. "Wife work?" Jenks probed. The cop nodded. "Teacher. Business ed. Eighth grade." Business ed, huh? Maybe he would understand a business proposition. "My wife used to work," Jenks grunted back. "My first wife. In retail. My current wife worked, too, in television. Course, now she only works out." The remark produced a snicker. The tight-assed bastard was loosening up. Jenks saw a landmark he recognized. Twenty minutes from the Golden Gate Bridge. There wasn't much time left. He glanced out the window at the patrol car following them. There was another in front. A bitter resignation took hold. There was no way out. No elegant escape. That was in his books. This was life. He was screwed. Then, out of nowhere, the police van lurched violently. Jenks was hurled forward in his seat, toward the guard across from him. For a second, he wondered what was going on, then the van lurched again. He heard a chilling rumbling sound outside. It's a fucking quake. Jenks could see the lead police car swerve to avoid the charge of another car. Then it skidded off the road. One of the cops yelled, "Shit," but the van continued on. Jenks spun around in panic, trying to hold on to anything that was fixed in the compartment. The van was bucking and jolting. The police car following them jumped over a sudden hump in the highway and, to his total amazement, flipped. The driver of Jenks's van looked behind him in shock. Then suddenly the other cop in front screamed for the driver to stop. An eighteen-wheeler was breached in their way. They were headed right toward it. The van swerved, and when it did, the road buckled again. Then they were out of control- flying. I am going to die here, Nicholas Jenks thought. Die here, without anyone ever knowing the whole truth. The van crashed into the stanchions of a Conoco station. It screeched to a stop, spi

Chapter 112

IT TOOK ABOUT THREE MINUTES for Chris and me to throw on clothes and head back to the Hall. In the rush, I never told him my news. By disaster standards, the quake was nothing much -unless you had spent the past five weeks tracking down the country's most notorious killer. Most of the damage ended up confined to shattered storefronts and traffic accidents north of the city, but as we pushed our way through the clamoring throng of press in the Hall's lobby, the quake's biggest news crackled with the fierceness of a live wire: The bride and groom killer was free, Nicholas Jenks had managed to flee after the police van taking him back to jail had flipped over outside Novato, the result of a chain of automobile accidents caused by the tremor. The policeman guarding him had been fatally injured. Two more, in the front seat of the overturned van, were hospitalized. A huge command center was set up down the hall from Homicide. Roth himself took charge. The place was crawling with brass from downtown and, of course, the press. An APB was released, Jenks's description and photo distributed to cops on both sides of the bridge. All city exits and highway tolls were being monitored; traffic slowed to a crawl. Airports, hotels, and car-rental ports were put on alert. Since we had tracked Nicholas Jenks down originally, Raleigh and I found ourselves at the center of the search. We placed an immediate surveillance on his residence. Cops spread out all over the Sea Cliff area, from the Presidio to Lands End. In searches like this, the first six hours were critical. The key was to contain Jenks in the grid where he had bolted, not let him contact anyone who could help him. He had no resources, no funds, no one to take him in. Jenks couldn't stay on the loose- unless he was a lot craftier than I thought he was. The escape left me stu