“Thanks … oh gawd, not again—”
“David Lumsden. You’re really very welcome. And good luck with BTs.”
She offered her hand but he just opened the door for her and smiled and looked at her eyes, pretending he didn’t see it.
FIVE
I called CAY together right after the morning brief. We meet in a small room without windows or interruptions and we tend to work fast.
We read through the profile and I told them I thought a proactive stance was too risky now. All agreed except for Frances, who was visibly rattled when I told her that Strickley had predicted a quickening of The Horridus’s pace, and a likely escalation to rape and murder if he felt we were close to him. Frances is a stocky blonde with a fair Scandinavian complexion that seems to register everything she’s thinking. She colored after I spoke my piece.
“We can’t wait,” she said.
“Nobody’s going to wait, Frances,” I said. “That’s why we’re here. What do you have on the fabric he used for the robes?”
Frances did her rundown: it was a material made of nylon, rayon, polyester and/or Lurex, from one of three domestic manufacturers, or one of several offshore. It had various trade names—Wyla, Allure Stretch Mesh, Lacy Sawtooth Galoon, Deco-Mesh, Tuff-Net, Angel’s Wing, Gossamesh. They made it in the U.S., Mexico and China. She could get a maker from the crime lab, but it would take time. The stuff was sold in scores of county yard goods stores, costume supply houses, five-and-dimes—from $1.19 to $7.99 per yard, depending on the design imprinted on the mesh and the quality. Ours was plain white. She had already worked the bigger outlets to see if a man had recently purchased any in quantity—but with our scant physical description it had been a shot in the dark. With Strickley’s profile, she’d start all over again.
“And the safety pins are a bust,” she added. “They’re standard issue—you can get them anywhere.”
I assigned her the real estate listings for any homes offered for sale in the past three months that had a detached studio or maid’s quarters. I told her he’d be in a hurry to sell, so watch for the bargains. And ignore the mansions—they’d be out of his price range.
“Johnny,” I said, “the vehicle.”
He’d been working the van—trying to find a late-model red Chrysler/Plymouth/Dodge for sale—and came up with three. One of the sellers was a woman, and one a Vietnamese Baptist priest, but number three was at least a possible: a thirty-two-year-old white male named Gary Cross who said he was tired of spending the money on gas and wanted something smaller.
“It’s a red Chrysler Town and Country,” said Johnny. “Loaded and pampered. Interior is red and the backseats are out. Cross works a day shift at a Lucky’s Market up in Anaheim. He’s got no priors, his work record is clean, seems to be well liked. I’ve been watching him after work—he lifts weights and plays racquetball. Has a steady girl. I’m not smelling much.”
Johnny leaned back and looked at me with his sharp, almost black eyes. He dresses for a plainclothes assignment whether he’s working a case or not: today’s garb was chinos, black snakeskin cowboy boots, a crisp white T-shirt with a pocket and a silver chain running from his wallet to a belt loop. Twenty years ago he was down for the barrio on Raitt Street, a kickass homeboy known as Gato because he was fast and elegant, even as a kid. He’s one of the few—the very few—who’ve managed to pull themselves out of that life and make a real one. He’s a good man and he has much to be thankful for now. He’s thirty-two years old, with a wife named Gloria—of striking beauty—and three kids. I’d like to dress more like him, but I’m too conventional to pull it off. Johnny’s my favorite deputy in the department, not counting Melinda, of course. He’s got a quick mind, a big heart, a wicked smile over a sharp goatee and a widow’s peak of thick black hair that completes his handsome-as-the-devil look. I trust him with my life.
“Stay on him for another couple of days,” I said. “In the meantime, check the coroner’s files for all deaths of elderly women under suspicious circumstances in the last year. Do the homicides and suicides first. Make that age fifty and up—she might have had him young. Toss out anyone not white or childless.”
“Why? What am I looking for?”
“Something Strickley said. It’s not in the profile. I just had the thought that the death of his mother would be a wonderful precipitator, especially if he caused it.”
“Killed his own mother?” asked Frances.
“You’re thinking like these creeps more every day,” said Johnny, with a smile.
“That’s our leader,” said Frances, her color restored.
“Louis—how’s the vintage clothing business?”
“I’ve got twenty-six shops in the county, eight of them have kids’ sections, but girls’ dresses are pretty rare. The thing is, most of them just fall apart. Jeans and jackets, that’s another story. I’ve gone to six of the stores—two more to go, up in the north county. Nobody remembers selling any little girls’ dresses to a guy. The record keeping in these secondhand stores is pretty loose. I’ll try our revised physical description on the clerks, but I won’t bet on much. My insides, especially after this profile, tell me that the clothes are his. I mean, they used to belong to someone he knew—sister or cousin or friend. Who knows, maybe his mother dressed him up that way when he was little. Sounds like she could have, from the profile.”
“I think you’re right,” I said. “But do the last two stores. After that, help Frances with the houses for sale—that’s a big job.”
I also gave Louis the porn shops, to try to isolate a slender, well-dressed, bespectacled white male, late twenties to late thirties, with an interest in little girls. Most pedophiles won’t try that angle, because most porn shops make so much money selling adult smut they don’t risk the kiddy stuff. But it wouldn’t hurt to ask around. Some of the smut sellers owed us.
I took the reptile houses myself, to see if anyone like our suspect had inquired about, or perhaps bought, either Moloch or Crotalus horridus, whatever in hell they were.
I assigned each of us three more employees of the office complex up in Buena Park—home of Knott’s Berry Farm—where the dead girl was found in the file cabinet. None of us believed we’d find the mother that way, but it made sense to clear the workers before we got into the neighborhood. We didn’t have a picture of the little girl—she was about eight weeks old—so canvassing was going to be tough.
“Johnny, Louis,” I said, “you guys were great on TV last night. You’re the talk of the department—again.”
“We looked like the Keystone Cops, milling around back there,” grumbled Louis. “Man, I came that close to picking my nose.”
“Any publicity is good publicity,” I said.
“Then why don’t you take some of it, boss?” Johnny asked, with a minor smile.
“ ’Cause I don’t want any of it. Kick butt today,” I said. “Tomorrow morning at seven we search the other Sharpe residence. I want you all there.”
An hour later I walked into Prehistoric Pets in Fountain Valley. It’s a big, well-lit room lined with glass cages. It smells like running water and sawdust and just a hint of something feral and something … digested? Excreted? I wasn’t sure. On your right, when you walk in, is a big pond with a waterfall and catfish and turtles the kids can feed. A toddler and his mom stood over the water, dropping food pellets.
I went to the big island counter in the middle of the store and asked to talk to the owner. I showed my badge. A moment later a sleepy-looking guy in shorts and a T-shirt that said Cold Blooded came from behind a wall of glass terrariums and eyed me without joy. He introduced himself as Steve and led me back the way he had come. Walking past the cages I could see the lizards and snakes prowling their little worlds. The bigger they are the slower they are. A terrarium filled with baby green iguanas had the most action. You could take one home for $10.99. A corner cage held a reticulated python that looked to be eight feet long—$599. It was as big around as my leg. I
asked Steve what the python ate.
“Rabbits.”
“Can I look around a second?”
There were blood pythons, Burmese pythons, ball pythons, carpet pythons, tree pythons and more reticulated pythons. There were Colombian red-tailed boas, Dumeril’s boas, rainbow boas, emerald tree boas and dwarf boas. There were anacondas, cat-eyed snakes, pine snakes, indigo snakes. There were iguanas of all sizes, monitor lizards, water dragons, bearded dragons, uromastyx, geckos, skinks and whip-tails. Below the glass of the island counter were little white containers like you’d buy deli food in, but with newborn snakes inside them—just inches long and brightly colored. You could get a newborn California king snake for $69.99 or a gaily banded red, white and black Arizona mountain king snake for $139.99.
“What do the little ones eat?”
“Little mice.”
The office was small and cluttered with tanks and cages. There was a big gray industrial desk that Steve sat behind, and a folding chair for guests. I asked him what he could tell me about Moloch horridus or Crotalus horridus.
He looked at me with his sleepy eyes and nodded. He looked to be fortyish. He was lightly built, with thinning black hair, sun-worked skin and a drooping mustache. His voice was slow and pleasant and very clear. He wore glasses.
“Well, the common name for Moloch horridus is thorny devil, for reasons pretty obvious when you see one. It’s an Old World agamid. The New World counterpart would be the iguanids—they’re similar to horned lizards, what some people call horny toads. Small, about eight inches, maybe, brown and orange. Curious little lizards. Live in Australia, in the desert. They eat ants.”
I nodded. “Do you sell them here?”
“We buy only captive-breds from licensed dealers.”
“I don’t really care where you get them.”
“Australian reptiles are all protected. When we do get them—the captive-breds, that is—they go for about a hundred. It’s fairly easy to get them onto mealworms and they do well in a warm, dry setup.”
“Do you sell them often, or just occasionally?”
“Occasionally. They’re not popular, maybe because of the price. Plus, the bearded dragons have pretty seriously blown out the agamid market in the last year or so.”
“Would you do a special order, if someone wanted one?”
Steve studied me with his calm eyes. He cleared his throat. “Are you asking me to get you one?”
“No.”
“ ‘Special order’ is a little upscale for us. Dealers and collectors and breeders can be fairly … relaxed when it comes to schedules, or specific animals, or prices.”
“So you might put out the word.”
“Sure, we could put out the word.”
“Has anyone asked you to put out the word lately?”
“No.”
“Anyone asked about one—care, feeding, maybe?”
“Just you.”
Steve stared at me quite frankly, studying my face with his drowsy brown eyes.
“How about Crotalus horridus?”
“Horridus horridus or horridus atricuadatus?”
“How in hell would I know? Help me here, Steve.”
A tiny smile. “Well, horridus horridus is the once common timber rattler from the east. Brown and black, dark tail, chocolate brown splotches rimmed in yellow or tan. Handsome. They’ll go five feet or so. Heavy bodied. Used to be common, but development, rattlesnake roundups and general fear and ignorance have left them threatened in some states. It came close to being named our national animal, but the bald eagle won out. The ‘Don’t Tread on Me’ flags showed the timber rattler. They’d always put thirteen buttons on the rattle, for the thirteen colonies. So. Horridus atricuadatus is the canebreak rattler, a cousin, if you will. Similar, inhabits lowlands and marshes, occurs further west. We don’t deal in venomous reptiles. Never have and never will.”
“Anyone ask about a timber rattler, refer to one, lately?”
Steve blinked slowly and sat forward, putting his elbows on the desk. “Yes.”
“I like that word, Steve. Expound.”
“Kind of. It was about two months ago. I was working the cash register, selling snake food. This guy came in and said he caught a timber rattler in his driveway, wanted to know how much we’d give him for it. Just a kid—fifteen, sixteen. I took a look in the coffee can and he had a little Crotalus viridis, which is our common western rattlesnake. I told him what it was and that we didn’t buy or sell venomous snakes. He said he looked it up and it was a limber rattler. I said there weren’t any timber rattlers in California, unless it was in a collection, or someone let it go. Either way, his was just a western.”
“Hmm.”
“That’s not the interesting part.”
Steve rolled back in his chair and folded his arms across his “Cold Blooded” T-shirt. “This is about The Horridus, right?”
I nodded.
It was strange to see the change in him, the way that his proximity to something as aberrant as The Horridus made him different. His eyes gleamed and the muscles in his face tightened. He studied me again, then rolled back to his desk and leaned toward me.
“This is the thing. The guy in line after the kid, he took a look in the coffee can while we were having our little discussion. I remember what he said because most of our customers aren’t knowledgeable about reptiles, and even the serious ones aren’t generally familiar with the Latin. He looked in the can and said, ‘Not horridus. It’s viridis.’ ”
“Describe him.”
His eyes were alive now, sharply focused and intently registering my face. “It was a busy day at the counter and that’s not the kind of work I enjoy about this business. I’m not a people person—I’m a reptile person. But I remember him as average height, on the thin side, short brown hair, kind of wavy maybe, coat and tie. He had a beard and mustaches, neat and trimmed. The beard was darker than his hair. Early thirties. Glasses. The overall impression I had was of gentleness. Hesitance. Shyness. Kind of like an academic type. He struck me—but remember this was just a quick impression—as being … meek.”
My heart was thumping. I felt that wonderful hyperalertness that adrenaline brings. This could be it.
“How well do you remember his face?”
“Not real well. The facial hair hid his features. Plus … well, he was just kind of forgettable looking.”
“What else?”
“That’s all I remember about him.”
“What did he buy?”
“Oh, right. He bought rats, mice and rabbits. He wanted them all alive. I don’t know how many, but quite a few—over twenty in all. I remember thinking he was feeding a fairly good-sized collection.”
“You can buy them dead or alive?”
“We’ll fresh-kill them for the customers, if they want. Or we have them frozen.”
“What else did he buy?”
“That was all.”
“Had you seen him before? Or since?”
Steve shook his head.
“When you remember him, is it a clear picture, one you could describe to a police artist?”
“It’s fairly clear. I’m a good observer. But like I said, he was kind of … nondescript.”
I told him about one of our artists, an extremely talented woman named Amanda Aguilar. Steve said he’d be willing to work with her, but really, he couldn’t remember much detail. I told him she could be at Prehistoric Pets at five-thirty, when he got off work. If possible, I like to have witnesses describe suspects to artists in the same setting where they saw them. It helps.
“How did he pay?”
“I don’t remember. I can check, but it would take some time.”
I leaned forward now, too. “Steve, I don’t have any time. He’s taken two girls and he’ll take more. I need you to find that record for me and I need you to find it now. Can you help?”
“You’re damned right I can.”
I went outside and used my cell phone to call Ama
nda Aguilar. She’s a freelance artist now, not on staff. After Orange County’s notorious bankruptcy of ‘94, we cut positions to save money, and our full-time artists were lost. Amanda said she would be happy for work. I thought of the fat CAY budget I’d submitted to Jim Wade just weeks ago, and felt a pang of guilt when I realized that hiring back Amanda wasn’t a part of it. She agreed to be there at the end of Steve’s workday. I told her that Steve’s man would have a beard, and that I wanted one sketch with the beard and one without; and one with glasses and another without, also.
“Then we’re fishing,” she said.
“We are.”
When I got back to the Prehistoric Pets office, he had the sales slip. Four rabbits, ten rats, ten mice. Paid in full with cash on the sixteenth of March. Steve was smiling, for the first time since I’d introduced myself.
I pondered the odd purchase, then asked to see where the transaction took place. We went back out to the island counter and Steve took me inside. There were bins that slid under the space below the top. There were long shallow ones for newborn mice, taller ones for mature rats and deeper ones still for the rabbits. There were cardboard boxes for crickets and mealworms. At the counter, a young man ordered three large rats, fresh killed. The clerk pulled out the rat bin, lifted a big white animal and, holding fast to the tail with his left hand, used his right thumb and forefinger to form a collar behind the rat’s head, then yanked away from his body, hard. The rodent shrieked—a genuinely disturbing sound—and was dropped into a paper shopping bag. Splat. Then, two more. Steve looked on without apparent emotion.
“Why do some want live ones, and some dead?” I asked.
“It’s safer for the reptile if the prey is dead.”
“Can’t they kill them on their own?”
“Sure. But rats and mice have killed plenty of snakes, too. It’s just a precaution.”
The next customer wanted fifty small crickets. I watched the clerk fill the bag with crickets, then air from a pump, then tie off the top.
I asked Steve what he could tell me about our mutual friend’s collection, based on the food he’d purchased.
Where Serpents Lie (Revised March 2013) Page 7
