“Thanks, everyone, for being available to meet with us today,” Dean begins. “We’ve been working closely with the LAPD, particularly Detective Benson, and we have some information we wanted to debrief you on.” He presses the touchscreen monitor on the wall and a report pops up. “You should now all have this report. We ran an analysis through our software program that was designed by former intelligence officers. It has presented us with what we believe is a clear description of the stalker.”
I can see all the small screens with everyone else on the call and their gazes are locked on the shared screen with the report.
“We believe we are looking for a white male, age twenty-five to thirty. He is likely educated, most likely has a college degree and work experience in some area of biology and/or medicine. He may have worked as a technician at an animal hospital or a doctor’s office. He likely does not openly seem unusual. He may actually present as friendly and outgoing. We believe his obsession is with the band, but predominately with Grady.” All eyes glance up at what I assume is the square with my face in it on their screens. “This obsession likely started prior to the band formation, when Grady was racing, although now it is possible it’s morphed into something more. We aren’t sure of the underlying motive at this time. At first, we thought it might be a case of intimate stalking and that the individual may know Grady, but considering the most recent events, there is a firm possibility that the stalker is psychotic. This means the individual is delusional and their actions may be erratic to us but make sense to him. We’ve cross-matched the database with individuals known to Grady. There are a few individuals that work with the band that presented as possible suspects. Detective Benson is working on interviewing each of them. At present time, we can’t rule out a possibility of a delusional fan. The fan may even have been a fan of Ken Daniels and transitioned the focus of their obsession to Grady. That being said, the security plan will continue to be in place until the case is solved. Following that, we will re-evaluate protocols and move on from there. Any questions?”
The video feeds are silent as everyone processes what we’ve just learned.
“What about any partial prints from the break-in at my house?” Rhett asks.
“Unfortunately, whoever broke in was very clever and wore gloves. We’re trying to use some new software to pull a possible full face for facial recognition, but that software takes time to fill in the missing parts of the face,” Dean explains. “We’ll keep this as our weekly debriefing time and add in any additional meetings as they become needed.”
Everyone mutters goodbyes. I continue to stare at the blank screen on the wall.
“You alright, Mr. Daniels?” Dean asks me.
I turn to him, my hands folded in my lap, one leg crossed over the other. “I need this resolved ASAP, Dean. I mean it. I’ll kick extra money if that helps.”
“It’s not an issue of money,” Dean explains. “This guy…he’s good. He’s been planning this for a while. His moves are meticulous and calculated. This hasn’t come up in any of the profiling yet, but part of me believes he might have either a police or military background. His recent actions and knowing how to avoid detection seem to fit such a profile.”
“Have you mentioned this to the profilers?” I ask.
“Yes. Their system hasn’t ruled that out, but they aren’t confident in the statistical numbers related to police or military background. That’s why it wasn’t formally presented to you today. It may be by next week, but I don’t like waiting that long.”
“Dean, if you have thoughts like this, share them with the whole group,” I demand.
Dean nods. “Yes, sir. My apologies. These briefs are only meant to provide you with statistically approved data. Bryce prefers not to speculate.”
“I understand that. He may own your firm, but he isn’t the client,” I point out. Dean nods.
“No, sir. You are absolutely correct.”
“So, say this military option is correct. Do any of the suspects meet that criteria?” I ask.
“Well, your publicist’s PA was in ROTC in college, and there’s a kid that works at the record label that just got out of the military, but he’s twenty-two, in my opinion, he’s too young to match the profile.”
“OK, well, thank you.”
“One last thing, I will be heading down to confirm the identity of our new security detail for you. His name is Trevor Kingsley. I have to confirm identification before he can enter the building. I have all your video and motion sensors in place. Just press star three on your phone, and it will connect you straight to me. It shouldn’t be more than three minutes,” Dean says.
I give him a look. “Dean, I think I’ll be fine for three minutes. Plus, this place is like Fort Knox. No one is getting in here without you and like forty other guys knowing it.”
“Point taken. Anything else, sir?” Dean asks.
I shake my head and leave. I’m half-expecting Dean to salute me as I walk out of the room.
I head into the kitchen, grabbing a beer, and I decide to sprawl out on the massive bed in my mother’s guest room and watch television. But something draws me to my mother’s suite. I walk through the massive room, with its fourteen-foot ceilings and crisp white furniture. The only color in the entire room is from five throw pillows and the three paintings on the walls. My father had let her decorate this place. She had wanted it all white. She says white is soothing. I find it barren, myself. The Malibu house he had more of a say in and his laid-back style shows at the house. But here, it’s my mother, through and through. I glide my hand along the long dresser as I walk toward the door.
My hand stops first, blocked by objects. As my eyes follow my hand and focus, I jump back as though I’ve been electrocuted.
“What the fuck?” I mutter to the empty room. I slowly reach out, stopping my hand midway as though the three items will bite me.
My father’s wallet, keyring, and sunglasses sit in a neat row on the dresser. After he died, my mother placed them in the drawer, the only one she kept with his things after she eventually cleaned out his clothes and belongings from the room. It took her two years and my encouragement, but she finally did it. She claimed the one drawer had the things she just couldn’t part with, including those three items. He always left them in a row like that on this side of the dresser. The key to his first car was always pointing toward the wall, and they were always the middle object. The sunglasses and wallet were always at a diagonal. It made no sense and spoke completely to my father’s OCD, but it became a familiar thing to us. Something a loved one did every day, something insignificant that others wouldn’t notice, but we did. And when he was gone, it was just another small insignificant detail that we remembered and missed.
No one here would know about this. And it wasn’t like this when we arrived here. Could Emma have moved them? No, there’s no way. No one would put things in this strange order and angle, only Dad. Hell, Mom and I are probably the only people on the planet that remember he did this. A shiver runs through my body. I look around the room as I call my mother.
“Did you leave Dad’s wallet, keys, and sunglasses on the dresser?” I ask her before she even says hello.