The Case of the Vanishing Twin

"Those are good ideas," replied Wheeler. "Let's start with those. If we don't do something, I don't think this guy is going to stop. He's got a rock up his ass about something. Maybe he's just a plain ole vigilante going after bad guys. It might just be that simple."

"You might be right, Fran. All we can do is old-fashioned detective grunt work and try to reel this fish in," said D'Agosta.

"Okay. I'll start calling the local gun stores. Maybe you could do some online checking with the military for newly retired snipers moving to Oakland. If only it were that simple. Let's go."

THE LATE MELISSA STEIN'S VACANT HOME

1987 MAGELLAN DRIVE, MONTCLAIR (OAKLAND), CALIFORNIA

August 25, 11:20 a.m.

Robert Blake had rushed through town to get to the address his sister had given him. He needed to make sure she was all right and get her to a doctor if she wasn't. He hastily parked at the curb and rushed up to the front door of the house and knocked hard on the door, where he waited impatiently like a little kid who has to pee, but his brother won't let him in the bathroom.

Finally, the door opened, and Gwen invited him in.

"She's downstairs," she said, pointing the way to the basement door next to the kitchen.

He opened the door and took one look down the dark stairs, seeing a dirt floor at the bottom, and knew something wasn't right. He turned to address Gwen.

"Where is--"

Before he could finish his sentence, he froze as he found himself staring down the barrel of Gwen's Colt.32-caliber pistol. Gun barrels always look several sizes larger than they really are when you're the one looking down the barrel when it's pointing at your face.

"Where are you--"

"So many questions. Where is this? What is that? How about you shut your pie hole and walk down those stairs?" shouted Gwen.

"Where's my sister? She said she was here," asked Robert.

"Your sister is here. She's downstairs. So you're heading in the right direction. Now get down those stairs, and I'll reunite you with her," said Gwen.

Gwen turned on the light to cancel out the black darkness of the basement.

"You see that door right there?" asked Gwen. "Open it."

"Okay. Now what?"

"You see that shelf? Reach around to the left side of it and pull the handle that you'll feel there."

"Here it is."

The shelf popped away from the wall when he pulled the handle towards him.

"Now pull the shelf open like a door and walk into the room on the other side," commanded Gwen.

"Okay. Okay. Don't get all excited," yelled Robert.

"Robert!" screamed Roni as soon as she saw her brother walk into her prison cell.

He was startled to see Roni and another woman he didn't recognize standing in the squalid little room with only one disgusting single bed and a putrid-looking toilet in the corner.

"Oh, my God," exclaimed Robert as he grabbed Roni and hugged her. "Are you all right? My God. Have you been here all this time you've been missing?"

"Yes. This psycho bitch followed me home from school and forced me to come here with her at gunpoint. This is Nikki Fontaine. She's a private investigator who came looking for me and ended up in the same boat as me. Now you're here. I don't know if she has some kind of sick plan or she's just collecting people," said Roni.

"Aw, this is so sweet," said Gwen as she stood in the doorway with her arms folded and her pistol aimed at the ceiling. "You might as well get cozy. You'll be here for a day or two. I haven't decided which yet. And then some of you get to go for a ride. Doesn't that sound like fun? Now, please keep the noise down, or I won't bring you supper."

Gwen then backed away from the doorway and pushed the shelf-door back into position and clicked it shut.

RICH NANCE RESIDENCE

1818 ESTATES DRIVE, OAKLAND

August 25, 5:45 p.m.

It's just not enough to take out two of the street thugs. There are so many more. And not just street thugs. I think these dirty white-collar bums are just as bad. They all need to pay. I won't feel better until I get more of them.

I think Werner Bergstrom has gotten away with enough with his criminal construction company. Low bids, cheap materials, a few deaths here and there. No price to pay. I've had it. He needs to pay before one of his buildings collapses and kills hundreds of people. He pays off everyone in sight, so there's not much chance of making him pay using the legal system.

See you soon, Mr. Bergstrom.

WERNER BERGSTROM RESIDENCE

755 WILDWOOD AVENUE, PIEDMONT (OAKLAND), CALIFORNIA

August 26, 7:30 a.m.

Being the president of a company, especially a construction company, doesn't mean that you don't have to get out of bed in the morning and go to your office or jobsites to keep your employees on their toes. Uncertainty is the best tool to keep employees in line.

It's also never too early to call on your friends in positions of power to make sure you prime them to vote the right way on things like city contracts for municipal projects, high-rises, and the like. The best way to get them to vote for your benefit is to supply them with enough of those little green pieces of paper. You know, the ones that measure about two and a half inches wide and slightly over six inches long, aka greenbacks. However, the most popular term is Benjamins. Without enough Benjamins, you can forget it. Nothin' be happenin' for you.

Werner Bergstrom was the king of Benjamins. He threw them around like confetti raining down on a New Year's Eve parade.

Werner kept his car parked in his driveway because his wife hogged half of their garage with her oversized SUV, and his ski boat took up the other half.

As he walked out to his powder blue Mercedes-Benz SLK 50 AMG, he had no clue that Rich Nance had him in his sights from three blocks away.

Rich had a Mercedes, too, but it was a clunky cargo van. But he had turned it into a cargo van with a purpose.

Werner got as far as opening the door to his car. After that, he got as far as the ground. The high-velocity.22-250 round entered the side of his head and stirred his brain around inside his skull like you stir eggs in a cup before you pour them into the hot frying pay to make scrambled eggs.

"That's just what you deserve, you piece of shit," said Rich as he unclamped his.22 rifle from the tripod, set it inside its storage box, and drove back home. He got up extra early, so he would need a nap this afternoon, if not sooner.

8:45 a.m.

It seems that Detectives D'Agosta and Wheeler just couldn't get a break. Recently they felt like kangaroos hopping from one dead body to the next. Wheeler started to have dreams where she'd freak out because she mixed up the evidence and facts from one homicide to another. Most people have work-related dreams now and then, some a lot, but they didn't usually involve terror and cold sweats like homicide dreams.

"So what do you think, Marco. Is this another.22 assassination or a random?" asked Wheeler.

"Well, I don't see this guy's brains on the driveway, so it looks like a small-caliber hit, probably our guy. This guy doesn't look like a drug dealer slinking around dark doorways on San Pablo or E. 14th Street. Let's find out who he is and what crimes he might be guilty of committing. If he's dirty, then our hitman is moving up the food chain and taking out fat-cat criminals as well as street thugs," replied D'Agosta.

After chronicling what they found at the crime scene, Wheeler and D'Agosta started walking towards their car when a woman who appeared to be in her fifties came walking down the sidewalk. She was wearing a pair of sweatpants, a sweatshirt, and running or walking shoes.

"Excuse me," she said. "Was someone shot?" she asked as she glanced over at what appeared to be a human body lying in the driveway with a yellow tarp draped over it.

"Yes, ma'am," replied Detective D'Agosta. "We have a male victim that someone shot earlier this morning. He lived in this house. Did you know him? His last name is Bergstrom."

"No, unfortunately, I didn't know anyone that lives in this house. But I did want to let you know something just in case it means something," said the woman whose name is Madeline Colson.

"You never know what might or might not be helpful, ma'am. Did you see something or hear something?" asked Wheeler.

"It may not be anything, but there was a large black Mercedes cargo van parked in front of my house for about an hour this morning. I know because I went for my morning walk, and there he was parked right at the curb next to my yard. He was still there when I got back. And when I took a peek a short while later, it was gone. I'm always concerned when I see strange cars parked anywhere in the neighborhood. You never know if it's someone casing the neighborhood or a specific house. So that's it, for what it's worth," said Madeline.

"You never know. That might turn out to be helpful at some point during our investigation. Thank you for not hesitating to get involved. We appreciate it, ma'am. You take care now," said Wheeler.

The two detectives then got in their car and returned to the station to Google their latest victim and see what he might have done to warrant the wrath of Oakland's newest serial killer and a bullet in his head.

OAKLAND POLICE DEPARTMENT

HOMICIDE DIVISION

August 26, 9:50 a.m.

"Well, I don't like the way these.22 murders are turning out. We need another serial killer like we need a hole in the head," said D'Agosta as he walked over to the coffee machine for a cup of morning sludge. "Ah, just how I like it, industrial strength. This stuff will give you a coffee enema just from drinking it."

"That's a disgusting thought, and the visual is even worse," replied Wheeler. "I'll see what I can find out about our latest victim.

"Let's see. Werner Bergstrom. Man, that name sounds familiar," said Wheeler at the same time she was typing his name into the Google search box.

"Okay. Now I've got it," said Wheeler. "No wonder this guy is so familiar. He's built several office buildings in downtown Oakland, plus lots of other buildings and developments."

"That's right," interjected D'Agosta. "I've seen him on the news several times. He's a big-time contractor. Are you finding anything dirty on him? Any skeletons in his closet?"

"Not much," replied Wheeler. "A handful of lawsuits for construction defects, which is pretty usual for busy contractors. Someone's always unhappy about something. Most of these lawsuits settled before trial, and a few went to trial, and Bergstrom ended up paying something to the aggrieved parties, which was the end of it. Maybe someone wasn't happy with the resolution and decided to make him pay the ultimate price."

"Yeah, he must have pissed in somebody's Honey Nut Cheerios big time to receive such a final response," said D'Agosta.

"Okay. So let's look at this in the simplest way possible. Our.22 killer is nothing more than a vigilante with a chip on his shoulder. Maybe he's just sitting around waiting to see someone on the news get away with a white-collar crime or a street criminal get off on some technicality, and then he goes after them to even the scale," said Wheeler.

"You're right. It could be as simple as that," said D'Agosta.

"I think I'm going to start doing some digging through the military and see if I can find a retired sniper who's relocated to the Bay Area. Who knows?" said Wheeler.

Forty Minutes Later

"Marco? You wouldn't believe how many retired military snipers have relocated to the Bay Area. I've found three ex-snipers in the last two years. One move to San Leandro. His name is Marvin Lucas. Then I found a Jonathan Keach who moved to Hayward. And the last one is Werner Bergstrom, who lives in Oakland.

"My money is on this Richard Nance in Oakland. He's close enough to commit these homicides and be home for dinner. Or breakfast, in the case of our last homicide. He was a sniper in the Marine Force Recon. I'll bet you he's our guy," said Wheeler.

"Let's get his address and pay him a visit," said D'Agosta. "I agree with you that he's the most likely. These shootings are in his backyard. And if he's going after criminals, Oakland is the land of never-ending crime, drugs, and drive-bys. You can park on just about any corner on one of the main streets, wait ten minutes, and you'll have a front seat to one type of crime or another."

"Maybe this guy belongs to some sort of movement, like the Aryan Nation or some other conservative or neo-Nazi group. But his third victim was white, so that makes it a little more likely that he's just a guy who's fed up with criminals," replied Wheeler.

"Well, if that's the case, he needs to move to another state. Good luck on him finding a crime-free state. If there were a state like that, everyone would move there, and then crime would start growing like weeds," said D'Agosta.

"Okay. I've got Nance's address. Let's go take a listen to this guy and see if he can convince us that he's not our sniper," said Wheeler.

RICH NANCE RESIDENCE

1818 ESTATES DRIVE, OAKLAND

August 26, 11:10 a.m.

"Wow. This is a very nice neighborhood," said Wheeler as she pulled up and parked at the curb in front of Rich Nance's house. "Wish I lived here. So what's this guy's gripe? He must be fairly well off to live here. Maybe he's just bored, and that's why he goes around shooting people. It's like a hobby for him or something."

"Do you see what I see?" asked Wheeler to D'Agosta.

"I certainly do. A large black cargo van. Very nice too. It's a Mercedes. Those are not cheap," said D'Agosta.

"Let's see," said D'Agosta. "He retired from the military about three years ago. He was a Marine Force Recon sniper with a rank of master sergeant. He's currently working as a freelance CAD designer. No criminal record. Not so much as a parking ticket. He sure doesn't fit the profile of a criminal. Something must have happened to send this guy over the edge. Maybe we can ask him about that."

"Well, let's go meet Mr. Nance," said Wheeler.

"Yes, can I help you?" asked Mr. Nance when he opened the door for the two detectives.

"Mr. Nance?" asked Detective D'Agosta.

"Yes, that is me," replied Nance.

"Would it be possible for us to come inside so we can ask you a few questions?" asked Wheeler.

"Sure," he replied and pulled the door open for Wheeler and D'Agosta to enter his home.

"Please have a seat anywhere you'd like," said Nance as he gestured to the chairs and sofas in his living room.

Both detectives sat on the same sofa, and Mr. Nance sat across from them in an overstuffed chair with an ottoman, which he slid to the side. There was a large coffee table in the middle between them.

"So, Mr. Nance," started Wheeler. "You retired from the Marines three years ago; is that correct?"

"Yes, about that," replied Nance.

"And, specifically, you were in Marine Force Recon, and your job while in the Marines, or MOS, was as a sniper?" asked Wheeler.

"Yes, that was my MOS. I did that when I was stationed in Iraq."

"Were you any good?" asked D'Agosta with a smile on his face.

"I was pretty good. I'll put it like this to give you an idea. I was very accurate out to about 1500 yards. I could shoot a rat's eye out from 100 yards. And I could choose which eye I wanted to hit."

"That's pretty damn accurate, if I may say so," said Wheeler.

"That is what people have told me," replied Nance.

"The reason we wanted to talk to you, Mr. Nance, is because it seems that we have a sniper on the loose in Oakland who has been targeting criminals. He's been using a.22 250 rifle with high-velocity ammo, and he's very accurate," said Wheeler

"His first victim was a drug dealer in East Oakland. No one came forward and said they heard a gunshot. Our second victim was a pimp in North Oakland. Again, no one indicated they heard any gunshots. Our third and last victim was shot in the driveway in front of his home. But in his case, he wasn't your typical street criminal. He was the president of a construction company that might have had some shady dealings but different than selling drugs or slapping prostitutes around.

"And the City of Oakland's ShotSpotter network failed to pick up any shots in these three sniper homicides. This tells me that we might be dealing with an excellent sniper who uses a noise suppressor on his.22 250 sniper rifle.

"I hate to say it, but right now, you are looking pretty good for these shootings."

"Why would say something like that?" asked Nance.

"Well, for a couple of reasons," answered Wheeler. "Number one, you were a sniper in the Marines. There's no getting around that. Number two, you retired to Oakland a little less than three years ago. Maybe it took a few years for the unrelenting street crime to take its toll and go from irritating you to infuriating you, and you decided to start doing something about it. And number three, we had a witness at our last murder, a neighbor, who said she saw a large black cargo van sitting in front of her house about three blocks away from where the victim was shot. And shortly after the shooting, the van was gone.

"I'm sure you can see why we think the arrow of guilt is pointing in your direction," said D'Agosta.

"No, I don't see that at all," replied Nance. "I've done nothing wrong, and I have no criminal record. I'm sure you've already determined that before you came to talk to me."

"I won't say you're wrong," added Wheeler. "We don't have at this time any evidence that points to you. We just have to follow up on any evidence or witness statements that we come across during our investigation of a case. We'll go ahead and give you back the rest of your day. Please pardon our intrusion into your time. We can let ourselves out. Thank you for talking to us."

"I hope you find the real killer for these shootings," said Nance as he smiled before closing the door.

Wheeler and D'Agosta gave Nance's cargo van a quick going over on their way out.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" said D'Agosta.

"We need a warrant."

"Exactly. This sonofabitch is hiding something. I feel stronger about Nance being our shooter now than before we talked to him," said D'Agosta.

"Let's go call a judge," said Wheeler.

"Before we go back to Nance's, I need to run an errand. I told Max I'd go with her one more time to visit Gwen at her mom's in Montclair about Nikki Fontaine's disappearance," said Wheeler.

"No problem. If you get hung up, let me know. I can serve the warrant and check Nance's house and van by myself if necessary," said D'Agosta.

"I'm hoping to be done in plenty of time to go with you to serve the warrant and check out this liar's house and van," said Wheeler.

TELEGRAPH LOFTS

2633 TELEGRAPH AVENUE, OAKLAND

August 26, 12:25 p.m.

Gwen Stein was very proficient with using computers and researching things she was interested in. She had been paying attention to the news over the last few months, especially the random murders of young men in their thirties. Gwen had a feeling that there was more than meets the eye in these murders. She could feel that there was some kind of connection.

One evening, when Gwen was doing background checks on the murder victims, she was stunned when one undeniable fact jumped off the screen right at her. All of these victims were males who had twin sisters. How curious, she thought. Gwen already knew that two of her captives, Roni and Robert, were twins.

Gwen had recently met up for lunch with her cousin Nora, aka Janice, and was chatting about one thing or another. Nora mentioned Donald and Donna's unbelievable situation and how they were initially twins, but Donna died in utero, but her personality still lives within Donald. Also, the police suspected that the Donna personality would control Donald and search for male twins and kill them. Like some sick ritual, Donna takes out her revenge on male twins because she died and her male brother lived.