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I cannot hide the bitter envy. “Isn’t it pretty?”

Little Geronimo gets frisky and kicks up his heels, hitting a hind leg against the rail. A smack rings out and the wood vibrates. Sterling halts the lesson.

Everyone who works at the off-site is herded into the central lab. Restrooms are searched. The roof is secured. Galloway addresses the crowd.

“There has been a breach of security at this facility. A suspect is being apprehended. Our purpose right now is to evaluate the viability of this workplace. You will be required to take a polygraph. We are counting on your patience and understanding in getting everyone through this as quickly as possible.”

When Mike Donnato discovered the tape of the phone conversation with Stone, and realized that Rooney Berwick had failed to report for work the past three days, the off-site was put under lockdown, and L.A. County sheriff’s deputies dispatched to his residence.

The Villa de Andalusia on Harper Avenue in West Hollywood is one of those garden courtyard apartments built in the 1920s. It would seem romantic if you were a nineteen-year-old would-be actress just off the bus, until you met your neighbors—a bleached-blond lesbian bartender and Rooney Berwick.

The bartender has a soulful, heart-shaped face, is covered below the neck with body tattoos, and is also nine months pregnant. She illegally sublets apartment 1A, Mrs. Berwick’s old place, while Rooney lives over the garage. Neither one of them would loan you a cup of sugar.

Nobody is answering in the garage apartment, so the deputies pound on 1A. The tattooed bartender comes out snarling and refuses to unlock the metal security door.

“Ruby Berwick?”

“Not in a million years.”

“Do you know where she is, ma’am?”

“She doesn’t live here.”

“What about her son, Rooney Berwick?”

“He says he works for the FBI, but that’s too weird for words.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“I don’t have a fucking clue.”

The deputy thanks her and walks past a fountain holding pools of scummy water to join his partner on the landing outside the cheaply built garage apartment. The door is locked. A bundle of mail is stuck in the slot, yellowed by the sun. Forced entry is required.

A couple of jabs with a crowbar splinters the thin veneer of the door, and then the entire lock assembly gives way with a groan. There seems to be weight on the other side, like sandbags, preventing them from opening it. Old people drop while answering the bell…. Sick people collapse before getting help…. But as they push against the door, a tearing sound like bandages from skin alerts the officers to the disturbing fact that it has been sealed with duct tape from the inside.

When they enter the grubby studio apartment, the deputies notice the temperature is elevated to over ninety degrees. All the windows are shut and there’s an ominous smell. Propped on a chair where nobody could miss it is a three-foot drawing of a skull on poster board, with handwritten words that say DANGER! CARBON DIOXIDE! RUBY “MOM” BERWICK, REST IN PEACE.

A Superman comic book from 1965 is taped open to a page on which the Man of Steel is spiraling into space, fist raised. “He knows what he must do!” the caption reads. An empty vial of Percocet and cans of beer have been discarded on the floor.

The bathroom door is locked, and again taped from inside. Once they gain entry, the deputies see the amber plastic doors that enclose the shower-tub have also been sealed, along with the bathroom window. Clearly, the intention was to create an airless chamber. But what of the two mysterious blue plastic milk cartons stamped AMBROSE, with a clock and a partially burned candle set on top?

Inside the tub is the fully clothed body of a decomposing white man, about 190 pounds, long white hair, lying in a fetal position on its side. Near the feet are the bodies of four pug dogs in similar states of decomposition. Fluid has collected in the bottom of the tub.

These five beings died together from lack of oxygen—but how? Sealing a chamber and burning a candle doesn’t suck the air