Chapter Twenty-two

Half an hour after leaving Dale Perry’s law office, Keith Evans walked into the conference room that had been assigned to the Ripper Task Force. The energy in the room would have run the lights in the city for a year. Everyone was in motion, talking excitedly on their phones, pacing with purpose, or energetically punching computer keys.

“What’s up, people?” Evans asked, and everyone started talking at once about polyvinyl siloxane, also known as PVS, the substance that had been found in the mouths of every Ripper victim with the exception of Charlotte Walsh.

“It’s the impression material a dentist uses when he’s going to have a crown or a bridge made for a patient,” explained Kyle Hernandez, a former soccer star at UCLA with a chemistry degree. “It’s soft when the dentist places it over a patient’s teeth. After it sets it’s removed from the mouth, and die stone, which is like a very hard plaster, is poured into the impression. Then the PVS, which is very elastic, is lifted off. The die stone model is scanned using a computer, and a robot mills the crown from porcelain or a technician makes a bridge or crown using a lost wax technique. We think we found minute traces of PVS in the victims’ mouths because someone used it for a model. When the PVS was removed from the mouth small traces remained.”

“How does this help us find the Ripper?” Evans asked.

“Dentists work closely with the technician who’s going to use the model. Sometimes they have the tech come to their office while the patient is there. Sometimes they’ll send a full-face photograph to the tech.”

“Do these technicians have access to personal information about the patient like an address or phone number?”

Hernandez grinned and nodded. “They could. Say they’re standing next to the dentist while they’re examining the patient and the patient’s file is sitting on a table. All the tech would have to do is take a peek. Or it could be something as simple as the dentist introducing the patient to the technician.”

Now Evans was as excited as everyone else. “Did all of the victims have dental appointments shortly before they were killed?”

“Bingo!” Hernandez answered as his grin widened. “But they all went to different dentists…”

“…who used the same lab,” Evans said, finishing the agent’s sentence with a flourish.

“Sally Braman is at the lab now talking with the owner, and Bob Conaway from the U.S. attorney’s office is ready to draft a search warrant application as soon as we give him an affidavit laying out probable cause.”

Evans smiled. “Good work people. Let’s hope this is the end of the line.”

“He’s two blocks away in a tan Toyota van, turning onto King Road…now,” the agent tailing Eric Loomis’s van reported.

Evans, Sparks, and two other agents were across the street from Loomis’s house in an unmarked car. A SWAT team was hiding behind Loomis’s detached garage and would seize him as soon as Evans told them Loomis was out of the van. He tried to calm down, but he felt like he’d been injected with methamphetamine. His hands were shaking, his palms were damp, and the way his heart was racing he was certain he’d flunk his yearly physical. He shut his eyes and pictured a clear mountain lake surrounded by green meadows and domed by a blue sky dotted with white, puffy clouds. The meditation technique failed miserably as soon as the agent tailing Loomis announced that the lab technician was turning onto Humboldt Street and would be pulling into his driveway momentarily.

Loomis’s house was a Dutch Colonial that had been built on a quarter-acre lot. There were two floors above ground and a basement, which was entered from a mudroom on the side of the house opposite the garage. A narrow alley separated the garage from the house. Doors on the side of the garage and the house opened into the alley. This meant that Loomis could park in the garage and carry his victims into the basement with little risk that he would be seen.

The van slowed down as it approached the house. Loomis used a remote to raise the garage door, and moments later he was inside.

“Now,” Evans said the moment Loomis shut the van’s door behind him. Four agents in SWAT black rushed inside the garage, and the tailing car swung in front of the van to block an escape attempt.

“FBI, FBI!” Evans heard the SWAT team shout as he sprinted across the street. The men who’d come through the front of the garage trapped Loomis against the van just as the side door to the garage jerked open. Evans lost sight of Loomis as more agents surrounded him. By the time he entered the garage Loomis was flattened against the side of the van and his hands were cuffed behind him.

The SWAT members parted leaving him face to face with his prisoner. Evans had checked for a criminal record and found two traffic tickets. Loomis’s record was as unexciting as his appearance. If he had to use one word to describe the prisoner it would be “soft.” The lab technician was five ten and flabby. His hair looked limp, and he wore thick glasses with a black plastic frame. An unimpressive mustache graced his upper lip and a scraggy goatee hid a weak chin.

“Eric Loomis?” Evans asked.

Loomis looked dazed. “What…what is this?” he stuttered.

“Are you Eric Loomis?” Evans repeated.

“Yes, but…”

“Mr. Loomis, I have a search warrant for your home. With your permission, one of my men will use your keys to open your door.”

“What are you talking about?”

“If you don’t help us by letting us use your keys and telling us the combination for your alarm, we’ll have to break, in and that could cause damage to your door.”

“Wait a second. What’s going on? Why do you want to search my house?” Loomis asked, his voice rising.

“Will you give us permission to use your keys?”

Loomis was sweating and looked panicky. His head jerked around. Everywhere were men in black with menacing countenances.

“I don’t know,” he managed.

“Very well, Mr. Loomis, since you’re unwilling to cooperate I’ll have one of my men break the window in your side door.”

“Wait, don’t. The keys are in my pocket. Don’t break anything.”

Evans nodded, and Maggie Sparks stepped forward. When Loomis saw that an attractive woman was going to search him, he flushed and looked even more anxious. When Sparks fished in his pocket for his set of keys Loomis grew rigid.

“The combination, please,” Evans commanded.

Sparks opened the door and shut off the alarm, and Loomis was herded into the living room and placed in an armchair. The prisoner was docile, head down, eyes on the floor. Evans left two agents with him then organized a search of the house. As soon as the search teams dispersed, Evans and Sparks headed for the basement. The first thing that hit them when they opened the door was the smell of rotting meat. Evans slipped on a surgical mask, Tyvek booties, and latex gloves. Then he turned on the light at the top of the stairs and walked down cautiously with his weapon drawn. Everyone assumed that the Ripper was a loner, but you never knew.

The first thing Evans noticed was the soundproofing. Loomis had made sure that the neighbors would not hear his victims scream. The next thing he noticed was the shelf against the wall. Arrayed across it were four glass jars. In each jar was a model of a set of teeth. Evans froze on the stairs when he saw the teeth and so did Sparks. In the silence they heard labored breathing.

The basement had the feel of an operating room. Bloodstains covered the floor, and a table covered with surgical tools stood to one side. But it wasn’t these implements that drew the eye, nor was it the two large dog cages that stood against one of the walls. What stunned Evans and Sparks was the dental chair that was positioned in the center of the room and the naked, gagged woman who was manacled to it.