by Paul Bishop
It might have been human once. It may have been someone’s relative, friend, or lover. But dead on the floor it’s nothing but bloody carnage. A pile of chemicals and elements. Cold clay. Ashes returned to ashes. Not human. Not a vital living, breathing, walking, talking creature blessed with the spark of life.
Now, it is nothing but a shell.
Dust to dust.
If cops don’t learn how to shut down emotionally, they quickly find themselves on the overload rocket straight to the moons of madness.
A cop has two choices, shut down or go insane.
But shutting down also carries a high price tag. With each crime scene, with each victim of excessive violence, with each investigation of a death at the hands of another, with each shutting down of emotion and humanity, it makes it harder to turn it on again – to come back and act normal around non-cop friends and family.
Each time you shut down, you’re never able come all the way back. Shut down enough times and the switch breaks. And if the switch breaks, your emotion are as dead as the lump of lifeless clay at your feet.
When Fey returned with the video camera, Lily was standing next to the grave. She hadn’t started disinterring the body, but had busied herself scooping up the top layer of earth in a wide circle around the grave. The earth would be preserved for later analysis – searching for any trace of blood, urine, or semen left by the suspect before or after burying the victim.
Lily had marked several clear footprints in the loose earth. They would be photographed and plaster casted before Lily lifted the earth they were on for analysis.
Lily pointed the footprints out to Fey. “Could belong to your suspect, or to the guy who discovered the body?”
“They probably belong to Blades or McCoy,” Fey said, cynically. “We’ll have to get paper foot impressions from all of them for elimination purposes.”
“What about the FBI guy?” Lily asked.
Ash was standing at the edge of the trail watching the activity.
Fey shrugged. “Let’s get his shoe prints also, but somehow I think he’s a lot more careful than those other two.”
“Good looking sucker, isn’t he?” Lily said.
“If you like the type.”
“Right,” Lily snorted. “You play it cool. Keep on making out like he doesn’t make your panties damp.”
“Shut up, Lily.” Fey quickly glanced around, making sure nobody was in ear shot. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to me, doll,” Lily said. “And only because I’m also a woman. I’d let him screw me rigid in a heartbeat.”
Fey had to readjust her image of Lily in a hurry. She’d never thought of the sloppy coroner’s investigator as having any kind of a sex life.
“Let’s keep my feelings our little secret and get on with the job,” Fey said in a conspiratorial, all-girls-together, tone.
“Whatever you want, doll,” Lily said, scooping more earth into a plastic bucket. “Let me know how it works out.”
While Fey had retrieved the video camera, she’d also used her portable phone to call Lieutenant Mike Cahill, the detective division’s commanding officer. She caught him at breakfast and briefed him.
Cahill would take care of contacting Captain Strachman, who was the commanding officer of the entire West Los Angeles Area. Cahill would also notify West Bureau, which had command over the four West Bureau areas – West Los Angeles, Wilshire, Pacific, and Hollywood.
At some point, the notifications would have the brass showing up at the crime scene to strut importantly around telling working detectives to do exactly what they were already doing.
There had been too many departmental blood baths, head-choppings, and general demotions recently for any rank captain or above to feel comfortable. They all had to see and be seen at important crime scenes. Had to make a presence in order to deflect those knives waiting to slam home in their backs. The politics at the high end of the brass heavy department were becoming a more deadly game than normal. If you blinked, your career could be killed quicker than a ten-dollar whore in an alley with a psychopath.
Fey had to play her share of politics, but she wasn’t at a level where it really counted. She was still an Indian, still connected to the streets. Fey considered watching the chiefs dither around until they self-destructed one of life’s little pleasures.
Watching Lily disinter a body didn’t rate the same way.
Eddie Mack moved in for some close-ups of the hand and arm sticking up from the grave. Lily looked at the exposed appendage as Fey set up the video on a tripod. Once the Palmcorder was running, Fey stepped over to examine the area of the wrist Lily had indicated.
“The hair on the back of the arm has been ripped off,” Fey said, squinting to get a better view of the raw patch of skin. “Adhesive tape?”
Lily nodded. “Be my guess. A little bondage to keep things interesting.”
“Before or after death?”
Lily shrugged. “Have to wait on the autopsy to give you an answer.”
Carefully, Lily began sifting dirt away from the body. As she pulled the dirt away, Sammy scooped it up into a plastic bucket.
“I appreciate taking pains with the dirt,” Fey said. She was aware some coroner’s investigators wouldn’t bother.
“Whoever did this is a real sicko. I want you to nail his balls to the wall. The dirt is a long shot, but I’m not going to overlook it.”
Fey found herself reassessing her impressions of Lily again. It wasn’t often you came across a sloppy dressing anal-retentive with a sex drive.
“How sure are you the killer is a man?” Fey asked.
Lily looked up from shifting earth. “How many female ritual killers have you ever heard about? You could count them on one hand and still have fingers left over to pick your nose and wipe your butt.”
Fey laughed. “I’ll concede the point. The arm didn’t pop out of the grave all by itself. It was placed as part of the killer’s ritual. Did you know the sheriffs had another one like this?”
“News to me,” Lily said. “With a set-up like this, they should have known there would be another one.”
“I have no doubt they were waiting for a couple more to pop up in another jurisdiction. Then they could kiss theirs off by tagging it on to another investigation.”
“You gonna let them get away with it?”
“We’ll see.”
Lily grimaced. As she pulled more dirt away the naked corpse was exposed as it lay on its back in the grave. The other arm was twisted underneath the body at an unnatural angle. The grave was deeper than it first appeared, because the victim’s legs were bent back at the knees, feet tucked behind the body’s buttocks.
Thinking Blades or McCoy were standing behind her, Fey didn’t turn around before asking, “Didn’t you say your victim was a male black?”
“Male, black, fifteen to sixteen,” Ash answered. “The body was laid out exactly the same with one arm sticking out of the grave, second arm under the body, knees bent, legs tucked underneath the body. I’m sure there are going to be other similarities.”
Fey looked over her shoulder. Blades and McCoy were nowhere to be seen. “Where did Batbrain and Boy Blunder go?”
Ash smiled slightly. “They also think highly of you.”
“I’m sorry. Personality clash.”
“It happens.”
“I’m afraid it happens often with.”
“At least you recognize the fact.”
“But I’m getting too old to do anything about it.”
“It happens.” Ash said. “Your sheriff counterparts slipped away to get breakfast.”
“I wanted the file on their victim before they left.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got everything you need.”
One look at Ash’s face told Fey the double entendre had not been deliberate. He wasn’t even aware of the two-fold meaning inherent in his statement. The problem was Fey had hoped the statement was deliberate.
Fey said, “Can
I buy you a cup of coffee when we’re done here? You can explain why you’re involved in this.”
“Certainly.”
Fey returned her attention to Lily’s efforts and saw Eddie Mack was clicking away again over some aspect of the corpse.
Getting closer, Fey saw what was holding Eddie’s attention. A piece of silver duct tape was slapped across the mouth of the corpse, and around the neck a length of quarter-inch, white rope dug deeply into the flesh.
“Ouch,” Fey said mildly.
Ash’s voice intruded. “You’ll find the rope runs down the back to attach to the victim’s wrist and then to his ankles.”
“Seen it before,” Fey said. “The more the victim struggles to get loose, the tighter the rope around their neck becomes.”
“Basically, they strangle themselves,” Ash agreed.
“With help from whoever trussed them up in the first place,” Lily added.
Lily bent over and looked up the victim’s nostrils. She took a small flashlight from her belt and took another look. “The victim has recently taken up snorting dirt,” she said. She straightened up and returned the flashlight to her belt.
“Which means,” Fey said, understanding the implication, “the victim was alive when the killer buried him.”
Chapter 11
“Mike, you can’t do this to me.”
“I’m not doing anything to you, Fey. I’m telling you to turn this case over to Robbery-Homicide because it’s where it belongs.”
“This murder occurred on my patch, and my people deserve a chance to crack it. Robbery-Homicide isn’t going to be able to do anything we can’t.”
“They can throw thirty detectives on this case right now. We can’t. We’ve got three Homicide detectives – including yourself – and one of them is on vacation. You and Monk are already covering sex crimes for Hop-Along, who is also on vacation. You’re also in charge of the MAC Unit until Bureau agrees to give us another D-III supervisor to take over. This case has the potential to get completely out of hand, especially since the Sheriffs have a matching body. We don’t have the personnel resources to handle serial killers or high profile cases in-house. They’re Robbery-Homicide’s responsibility. That’s what Robbery-Homicide is designed to handle. If we don’t give them this case, they’re going to take it anyway.”
“Not if they don’t find out right away about the Sheriffs’ body.”
Lieutenant Mike Cahill threw up his hands in exasperation. “What do you want from me, Fey? Do you want me to lie to Robbery-Homicide? Do you want me to lie to Bureau? Lie to the Chief?”
“Sounds reasonable. Since when have they ever told us the truth?”
“Fey –”
“Come on, Mike. This is the biggest case we’ve had since I took over the Homicide Unit. If Robbery-Homicide takes it away, you know what it’s going to look like?”
“It’s going to look like exactly what it is – following procedure for a possible high-profile murder case, which requires more resources than a divisional level can provide.”
“Maybe, but it’s still going to look like it was taken away because I’m a woman.”
Cahill stood up from behind his desk in agitation. “You can’t turn everything into a gender issue. You’re being ridiculous.”
“Am I?” Fey, who had been standing in front of Cahill’s desk, took a step back and sat down. She took the action as much to diffuse Cahill’s growing agitation as she did to not give away the fact her legs were shaking. She pointed toward the squad room, where a myriad of detectives were intently showing no interest in watching what was going on through the open blinds of Cahill’s office windows. “Then how come everyone out there thinks it’s exactly what’s happening?” Aside from sitting down, Fey had also modulated her voice. She didn’t quite have the juevos to go nose to nose with her commanding officer.
She was actually glad to find there were limits to her bravura. Monk had been right – lately everything and everyone was aggravating her, and she was acting like a witch on steroids. Fortunately, she recognize challenging Cahill verbally was one thing, but getting into a physical altercation was another.
Cahill had started the argument over sending the case to Robbery-Homicide Division when Fey first briefed him at the crime scene. He arrived at the scene along with Brindle Jones and Alphabet.
Brindle was wearing an indecently short skirt and heels high enough to be outlawed. Fey felt Brindle’s arms and legs were skinny enough to pick locks, but the woman had breasts built to distract. Store bought, was the opinion of her female co-workers, but males tripped over their tongues.
Brindle’s ebony skin glowed in the early morning sun, her face framed by an explosion of honey-colored hair. She wore her body as if it were a coiled spring, snapping almost every male head in the vicinity to attention. The one exception was Ash. Fey had grabbed a glance at him to catch his reaction to Brindle’s arrival. She was surprised to see him take one look then turn his head back toward the body of the victim.
Fey sent up a silent prayer. Please don’t let him be gay.
In comparison to Brindle, Alphabet was a troll in training. Short, round, bald, and myopic, but with a waxed mustached full of vanity. His dung-brown, off-the-rack suit hung on him like a blanket covering a huge rubber ball. He was carrying a tray stacked with large containers of café latte. He handed one to Fey. She took the top off and drank gratefully.
With hidden delight, Fey sent Brindle and Alphabet off to search the area of the trails around the crime scene for evidence. “I want any trash recovered and brought to the station. If you find anything out of the ordinary, shout and Eddie Mack will take photos. Anything tire tracks or fresh footprints is going to have to be casted. Mark ‘em and let the SID criminalist know.”
Brindle looked daggers at Fey, but didn’t argue. She was aware of what Fey was doing. In her mind, though, if Fey couldn’t compete, she shouldn’t be in the race. Alphabet, however, immediately started the assignment as happy as a puppy with an old slipper.
Fey then brought Cahill up to speed. The lieutenant was silent while Fey talked, trying to take in everything and come to a correct decision. When she finished, his first words had been, “We better call Robbery-Homicide,” and the argument started.
Cahill wanted Robbery-Homicide notified and rolling to the crime scene, but Fey distracted him as Lily and her goons zipped the victim into a body bag and removed the corpse.
Lily had bagged the victim’s hands and feet in plastic to retain any evidence under fingernails or toenails. She had also removed and retained the rope used to bind the victim, cutting it so the knots would be preserved. Later the knots would be examined for style and comparison.
The silver duct tape from across the victim’s mouth had been removed and placed in an evidence envelope. The killer had also used duct tape to bind the victim’s ankles together. The wrist belonging to the arm sticking out of the grave had marks where tape had been torn off. Fey and Lily first thought adhesive tape had been used, but a piece of duct tape was wrapped around the other wrist secured under the body.
All the tape was removed and secured for analysis. If the detectives recovered a roll of tape from a suspect, the torn ends could possibly be matched. There could also be residue attached to the adhesive side of the tape. Most of the residue would belong to the victim – hair and skin particles – but there could be something from the suspect, or from the location where the victim was before being buried in the park.
Fey had kept Cahill’s order to call Robbery-Homicide delayed until they returned to the station. Once there, the argument escalated – first in the squad room, then behind the door of Cahill’s office.
When Fey pointed at the open blinds into the squad room, Cahill briskly pulled the cords on the six Venetian blinds closed. “Happy?” he asked.
“Closing blinds isn’t going to make anyone think differently. They know I’m getting woodshedding.”
“You deserve it.” Cahill sat in the oth
er visitor chair, but kept the width of the office’s oval meeting table between them. “I’m ordering you to send this case to Robbery-Homicide, and you’re fighting me every step of the way.”
“Mike,” Fey put a little pleading in her voice, “I want this one. If Lee Phillips was still running our Homicide Unit, you’d fight to help him keep it.”
Cahill didn’t immediately reply. Fey had hit close to the truth.
Fey pressed. “You and Lee were the president and loyal butt-buddy of the good-ol’ boys’ club in this division. Drinking buddies, fighting buddies, whoring buddies –”
“That’s not fair, Fey.”
“Yes it is.” Fey leaned her elbows onto the table. “It’s the whole point. I’m never going to be one of the good-ol’ boys. I don’t want to be. But I’ve covered your ass since I became the Homicide Unit supervisor. Our clearance rate is better than when Lee was running the team – even though murders have doubled in the last two years.”
“Not quite double.”
“You must be losing this argument if you’re starting to pick nits. I know I was given the Homicide spot as a token gesture to affirmative action – ”
“You were also qualified.”
“I know, but I also know pressure came from the Chief’s office to put a woman in the position of a homicide supervisor. West L.A. drew the short straw because Lee retired, plus we had the lowest murder rate in the city. If I screwed it up, it wouldn’t be too bad.”
Cahill shrugged, not arguing. “I still want this case turned over to Robbery-Homicide.”
“I haven’t screwed up. Have I?” Fey pushed.
Again Cahill simply shrugged.
“Come on, Mike.”
“ You’ve done the job.”
“Mike...”
“You’ve done a good job.”
“I’ve done a great job. Why is it so hard to say it? It’s not like we’re married and I’m begging you to say you love me. But give me due credit.”
“I’ll give you credit, but – ”
