CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Miles glanced at Vic, who raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Kim looked determinedly at the floor, her cheeks slightly flushed. It was clear that she was excited but doing her best to contain it.
Nothing happened for several seconds. Then Miles could hear shuffling footsteps on the other side of the door. These were followed by a voice from inside, rough with sleep and irritation.
"Who the hell is it?"
"FBI," Miles called out. "We need to speak with you, Mr. Bradford."
There was a pause, followed by the sound of movement inside the apartment.
Locks turned and the door opened just a few inches.
Michael Bradford stood on the other side, wearing sweatpants and a wrinkled t-shirt.
His sandy hair stuck up at odd angles and his eyes were bloodshot from having just been jerked awake.
He looked exactly like his driver's license photo, just older and more worn down.
"FBI?" Bradford said. His voice carried confusion mixed with anger. "It's four in the morning. What the hell do you want? Is the world ending or something? God…”
Miles held up his credentials. "I'm Special Agent Miles Sterling. This is Special Agent Stone and Special Agent Kim. We apologize for the late hour, but this is truly pressing. We need to ask you some questions about your whereabouts over the past few days."
Bradford stared at the credentials, then at their faces. Some of the anger drained from his expression, replaced by wary concern. "This couldn’t have waited until a reasonable hour?"
"No, it can't," Vic said. "May we come in?"
Bradford stepped back and gestured them inside with obvious reluctance.
The apartment was small and cluttered. A couch sat against one wall facing a small television that looked at least twenty years old.
The kitchen area was visible from the main room, separated only by a counter covered with a few dirty dishes.
Bradford walked to the refrigerator and pulled out a can of Red Bull. He cracked it open and took a long drink, grimacing at the taste but clearly needing the caffeine. "You mind telling me what this is about? What couldn’t wait for a few more hours?
“We’re investigating a series of bizarre murders,” Vic said. "It’s the sort of case where every single hour is important, so no…we could not wait until morning.”
Now that the severity of the case had been explained to him, Bradford seemed to be a bit less defensive. He nodded and walked back into the living room. He didn’t sit down, though; he looked a bit too uncomfortable for that.
“Yeah, okay. So…what do you need to know?”
"Where were you last night between seven and midnight?" Miles asked.
"Last night?" Bradford took another drink of the Red Bull. "I was at my AA meeting until seven, then I went to work at my part-time job. I'm doing a few hours every weeknight, doing inventory at a warehouse in Burbank. I pulled just five hours last night…got home about 1:30, I guess.”
“You were formerly a pilot, right?”
“That’s right. The warehouse gig…glamorous stuff for a former pilot, I know."
The bitterness in his voice was impossible to miss. Miles noted the detail about the AA meeting and the warehouse job. "Can anyone verify those whereabouts?" Vic asked.
"For sure. There were about two dozen people at the AA meeting," Bradford said. "And my supervisor at the warehouse. Guy named Ron Patterson. Want his number?"
"Yes, please,” Miles said.
Bradford grabbed his phone from the kitchen counter and though he still moved with the sluggish speed of sleep, he quickly located the number and read off a number, which Miles entered into his own phone.
The readiness with which Bradford provided the information suggested he had nothing to hide, but Miles had learned very quickly that guilty people could be excellent liars.
"What about three evenings ago?" Vic asked. “That would have been Sunday.”
Bradford took another drink and thought for a moment.
"AA meeting again. Same time, same place. I go every Tuesday, Friday, and Sunday as part of my court mandate. I haven't missed one in three years." Bradford set down the Red Bull and crossed his arms. "So can you tell me why you’re asking me where I’ve been? I’m fine answering your questions, I guess. I just…well, I’d like to know if I’m being accused of something.
"As I said, we're investigating a series of murders," Miles said. He watched Bradford's face carefully for any reaction. "Odd ones. Victims have been killed using weather balloons and helium to lift them into the air, only to then have the balloons pop."
Bradford's expression shifted to genuine confusion. "Weather balloons? Jesus…that’s messed up. But…what the hell does that have to do with me?"
"We believe the killer might have a fixation with flight and altitude," Vic said. "You're a former pilot with a history of aviation-related incidents. That makes you a person of interest."
"A person of interest in murder?" Bradford laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Look, I screwed up my life by being an idiot and drinking too much. I lost my license, my career, everything I worked for. But I'm not a killer."
Kim had been standing quietly near the door, but now she stepped forward. "Your obsession with flight must make it difficult to work around aircraft and knowing you’ll never fly them again."
"You have no idea," Bradford said. He picked up the Red Bull and finished it, crushing the can in his hand.
"Every day I'm at that warehouse, I can hear planes taking off from Burbank.
Every day I remember what it felt like to be up there, free from all the garbage down here.
But that's gone now. I destroyed it myself.
It hurts like a bitch, but I can admit it. "
"So you live vicariously through others?" Miles asked.
"I live vicariously through aviation magazines and air show videos on YouTube," Bradford said. "I don't even go near airports unless I'm working. It hurts too much."
The raw honesty in his voice gave Miles pause. Bradford was bitter and angry, but his anger seemed directed inward rather than at the world around him. The profile they had built suggested someone who blamed others for his lost ability to experience flight, not someone who blamed himself.
"These balloon killings," Bradford said. "Seems to me that's not about flight. That's about floating. A balloon just drifts wherever the wind takes it. That's the opposite of what flying is supposed to be."
Miles noted the distinction on his phone. Bradford was right. Powered flight and balloon flight were fundamentally different experiences. Someone obsessed with piloting aircraft might not have any interest in passive balloon ascents.
"The victims all worked at extreme heights," Vic said. "A skydiver, a window washer, a rock climber. All professions that involve defying gravity."
"And you think I'd be jealous of them?" Bradford shook his head. "I don't care about people jumping out of planes or climbing rocks. That's not flying. That's just being high up."
"Mr. Bradford, can you tell us about your relationship to UCLA?" Miles asked.
Bradford looked confused. He stared at all three of them individually as if waiting for some more context. "I don't have one. Never attended, never worked there. Why?"
"The victims all participated in a high-altitude performance study conducted by UCLA," Vic said. "We believe the killer used that study to select targets."
"Well, it wasn't me," Bradford said. "I've never heard of any study like that."
Miles studied Bradford's face, looking for any sign of deception.
The man matched Lisa Anderson's physical description reasonably well.
Sandy hair, average build, mid-thirties.
But Anderson had described someone friendly and approachable, someone who had engaged her in conversation without seeming threatening.
Bradford was brusque and defensive, his body language closed off and hostile.
Not only that, but he had provided alibis that would be easy to confirm.
Nothing about Bradford was a match.
"We'll need to verify your alibis," Miles said, bringing the conversation to a close. "Don't leave town until we've cleared you."
"I'm not going anywhere," Bradford said. "I work overnight shifts at a warehouse. Where would I go?"
“Thank you for your time,” Vic said as she moved toward the door.
They left Bradford standing in his cluttered apartment and walked back down the quiet hallway. The sounds from the amorous couple had stopped, replaced by the deep silence of a building full of sleeping people.
Kim typed something into her phone as they reached the elevator. "I’ll reach out to his AA coordinator,” she said. "The warehouse, too. But if you gave such clear, precise alibis…”
“Then he’s likely not our guy,” Miles finished for her.
Miles stepped into the elevator, wondering what they were missing. And also wondering of while they were running around for answers, the killer was preparing his next deadly flight.