Pretty Corpse

by Linda Berry

  Only Peter Duff warranted a return call, and Lauren agreed to meet with him after consulting with the top brass. With both Jack and Lt. Hardy present, she presented Duff with a firsthand account of her takedown of the assailant. The interview made front-page news, with the addition of a photo of Lauren standing between Jack and Lt. Hardy. The two men beamed. Lauren’s smile looked forced.

  Cops she didn’t know went out of their way to acknowledge her, and the ones she did know treated her differently—more standoffish. Lauren appreciated that the morale of the station had improved, but being singled out could be viewed as an insult to fellow officers, who also put their lives at risk every day and received little recognition.

  Lauren didn’t feel like a hero, and she didn’t regard the capture of the Keeners a total success story. Agnes had been released on bail, and Gordon’s public defender had cut off all contact with the detectives. No evidence linked Gordon to Steve’s murder, or Agnes to the sexual assaults.

  Lauren nearly collided with David Wong at roll call. She muttered an apology, but he deftly sent her a clear message by taking a place on the opposite side of the room. Afterwards, she learned he had been partnering with Peanut Farrell. Lauren managed to avoid him while gathering her equipment, but as she pulled out of the lot, she saw David and Peanut coming out of the station together laughing at some private joke. Lauren gunned the engine and drove off before they saw her.

  ***

  Lauren patrolled her route for hours with little crime activity. Her zest for riding solo had evaporated and she looked forward to calls that required backup, permitting brief camaraderie with fellow officers.

  At midnight, she took a Code 211. Robbery. The suspect had fled the scene but might still be in the area. She raced to the address off Mission and pulled up outside Fast Stop Liquor in a mostly Chinese neighborhood. Another unit pulled to the curb behind her, and Peanut and David joined her on the sidewalk.

  “Hey, Starcrazy,” Farrell said with her normal good nature.

  David nodded, no smile. The three entered the store together.

  “What’s the problem, sir?” Farrell asked the distraught cashier, a wiry, middle-aged Chinese man with shaggy black hair.

  He answered in English, but his fast, highly excited enunciation made him unintelligible.

  David stepped forward, addressing him in Chinese. The cashier spoke rapidly, while David’s voice remained respectful and calm. Occasionally, he scribbled notes on his pad. It appeared the man had been robbed of a considerable sum of money. Flipping his notebook closed, David turned to her and Peanut. “He says a teenager stole a couple of beers and a carton of cigarettes. He was afraid to confront him, but he got the license number of the car.” David gave Lauren an inscrutable gaze. “No need wasting your time here, Officer. No headlines in the making.”

  Peanut raised her brows, eyes darting from David to Lauren.

  Lauren turned to leave, thought better of it and turned back to Peanut. “Can you give us a minute?”

  Peanut winked and drew the cashier aside.

  “Follow me, David.” Lauren led him to a back aisle lined with frosted refrigerated doors and shelves of brightly packaged corn chips, then turned and faced him. “Look, I know you don’t think much of me, but we can’t let personal feelings affect our job. My life’s been turned upside down. You got mixed up with me while crap was flying. I’m sorry you got caught in the crossfire.”

  David’s dark eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

  “For what it’s worth, the ankle pistol you gave me saved my life. I’d like to at least pay you for it.”

  “Hell no. It’s yours.”

  “Thank you. I’m sorry it didn’t work out between us.” She studied her feet for a moment before meeting his gaze. “Just for the record, I thought you were a great partner, and I was proud to ride with you.”

  Silence.

  “I’ve said my piece. I draw the line at groveling.” Lauren turned on her heel and walked out of the store. She was seated in her car before she realized David had followed her. The night was chilly and a brisk wind attacked his scalp, whipping his black hair into a series of comical hairstyles.

  He motioned her to roll down the window and then he leaned forward with his hands braced on the window ledge. “All right, Annie Oakley. I think I’m getting the picture here. You want me back. Do I have this straight?”

  “Pretty straight.”

  He stole a long glance down the street. Pieces of litter scurried like mice across the sidewalk and somersaulted along the gutter. The dark eyes were back. “Okay. I’m willing to give you another shot. But you owe me big.”

  “How about I spring for coffee the next few weeks?”

  “Bubby’s rot gut?”

  “I’m done with Bubby’s. I’m talking Peet’s, Starbucks, you name it.”

  “Throw in a dozen chocolate éclairs and some hot cinnamon buns, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  “You’re a tough negotiator, but I guess I can live with that.”

  He shot her a high-voltage grin. “Ride together tomorrow night?”

  “Sure.”

  He backed away from the curb as she started the engine. Pulling out into the nearly deserted street, she watched him in the rearview mirror, her lips spreading into a smile.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  NEXT AFTERNOON Lauren rose late, ate fried eggs on toast and drank two cups of strong coffee before listening to the messages on her machine. The first was from Josie Keach. The other surprised her: Pamela Santos, thanking her for finding Steve’s killer. She hadn’t spoken to Pamela since the funeral, and she felt an immediate rush of guilt. Lauren hadn’t mustered the courage to face Steve’s widow while his killer was at liberty. Offerings of false hope seemed a betrayal. She returned the easy call first, reaching Keach at her office.

  “Bad news, Lauren.” Keach got right down to business. “There were no prints in Gordon’s bedroom linking Agnes to the assaults.”

  Lauren went cold. “There has to be something.”

  “Sorry. Nothing. She must’ve worn gloves. She’s been brilliant at covering her tracks. Now we know where Gordon learned his craft.”

  “Find anything out about the cult?”

  “More than I wanted to. The Dionysus disciples have a website. Their organization is discreet, but worldwide. Get this ….” Keach gave an ironic chuckle. “Dionysus is the Greek god of wine and mystic ecstasy. His followers worship, among other things, the phallus.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. I said phallus, which was worshiped as a symbol of generative power. Hold tight. I’m going to read to you straight off the web: ‘Disciples had Dionysian festivals in ancient Greece. Men were involved only on the periphery, as minions. At these festivals, women performed frenzied, ecstatic dances driven by libidinal energy.’”

  “Somehow, I can’t see Agnes dancing in a sexual frenzy.”

  “Amen to that. Listen, it gets juicier. ‘It’s believed there were sacrifices aided by the use of replicas of snakes and male genitalia, all symbols of fertility. The women killed goats, fawns, and cattle and devoured their raw flesh. Virgins were offered in marriage ceremonies to Dionysus to ensure continued fertility, and their deaths were feigned. This was to transfer energy from the women to seed future crops, ward off pestilence, and cure diseases.’”

  “The Keeners were offering virgins to Dionysus to insure fertility? Cure diseases?”

  “Bingo. We investigated Agnes’s medical records.”

  “And?”

  “She’s dying. Cancer of the uterus. Just weeks to live.”

  Lauren was speechless. She recalled Agnes’s difficulty getting down on the floor of the shed. “Gordon said she was sick.”

  “Her physician said she refused traditional treatment. The sexual assaults started three weeks after she was diagnosed.”

  “So you’re suggesting the Keeners assaulted these kids as a way to save Agnes?”

  “Or ensure he
r an honored place in the afterlife. You connect the dots. Unless she or Gordon come clean, we’ll never know. She’ll be dead long before we go to trial.”

  “She’s willing to die sacrificing her son?”

  “So it seems.” Keach paused and Lauren heard her speak to someone in the background. “Just one more thing. The bullets found in Cypress Park after Keener’s first run-in with you are a match to the gun Agnes used in the shed.”

  “And the rifle?”

  “Still no rifle. But we can now prove that on two separate occasions, Gordon tried to kill a police officer. That makes a strong case he had a thing for killing cops. The circumstantial evidence is almost airtight for Steve’s murder. Look, gotta run. I’ll keep you posted.” Keach clicked off.

  Operating on automatic, Lauren washed the morning dishes, her mind lost in thought. Her long, exhausting struggle was over. A dangerous predator was off the streets and Steve’s murderer was in custody. She should be elated, yet a feeling of incompleteness nagged at her. Something wasn’t adding up. Her concerns about Steve’s murder could no longer be ignored.

  ***

  Dressed in jeans and a sweater, Lauren walked up to the counter of Records Division at Valencia Station and asked a young female officer who looked fresh out of the academy for the supervisor. Sergeant Hannehan, middle-aged, portly, and balding, strolled out of a back office and asked politely, “What can I help you with Officer …?”

  “Officer Starkley. Off duty. I want to see a crime report submitted by Officer Steve Santos on October twenty-ninth. Suspect was a DUI.”

  “Let’s see what we can do.” Hannehan jotted down the info and disappeared into the records room. Through the glass partition, Lauren watched him rummage through several filing cabinets. He returned minutes later empty-handed. “Sorry. No such animal.”

  “Could you check the entire week before Halloween?”

  “Already did. I looked at files dating several weeks before and after the twenty-ninth. No such report.”

  She blinked. “That’s impossible.”

  The sergeant’s tone was sympathetic. “Santos was your partner, right?”

  Lauren nodded.

  “Sorry, I heard what happened. Look, hold on. I’ll go look at the computer backup.”

  “I’d appreciate it.” It’s gotta be there. The start of a headache was creeping along her temples.

  Peanut came up behind her and slapped her on the back. “Whussup, Starcrazy? You’re a celebrity now. You don’t need to be coming in on your day off to do grunt work. That’s what administrators are for. Administrating.”

  Lauren tried to conceal her agitation, her expression sober. “Remember when Steve and I had that slug-out at the Garden, and I had leave for a few days?”

  Peanut spread her feet apart and hung her hands on her gun belt. “Yeah. You two got whipped by some pretty boys.”

  Lauren shot her a look.

  “Whoa. Touchy. Sorry.”

  “While I was on disability, Steve rode solo. He got into a scrape with a DUI suspect. The suspect went for Steve’s gun. Steve had to wrestle him to the ground.” Lauren flashed back to the night she sat talking with Steve in the patrol car and discovered his knuckles were bruised and swollen. Guilt weighed down heavily on her as she recalled her partner’s tortured expression. “Steve messed up the suspect pretty good, judging from the way his knuckles looked. He struck some kind of deal with the suspect.”

  “Who was the suspect?”

  “That’s the problem. Steve died a few days later. I never found out. There’s no paperwork showing he busted someone resisting arrest.”

  The sergeant returned to the counter, shook his head. “Sorry, Officer. Nothing on the computer.”

  “Thanks for your time.” The emotion that welled inside Lauren felt like an ache. She and Peanut walked out into the corridor together. “Why didn’t he turn in the paperwork?”

  “Who knows?” Peanut said. “It’s history now.”

  “The suspect may have had something to do with Steve’s murder.”

  Peanut paused in her tracks and searched Lauren’s eyes for a moment. “You’re like a starving mutt on a bone, Starkley. Keener’s behind bars. Give it a rest.”

  “I can’t. Not yet.”

  “It’s wearing you out.” Peanut’s brow furrowed deeply. “Frankly, you look like crap.”

  Feeling an urgent need to find Steve’s report, Lauren had run out of the house without makeup, hair pulled back in an untidy ponytail.

  Peanut glanced at her watch. “My shift’s starting. Gotta get to roll call.”

  “If you think of anything ….”

  “Sure thing.” Peanut shot her a look of concern as she strode away. Probably relieved to find a way out of the conversation.

  Peanut was right. Lauren was fixated on Steve’s murder. It was affecting her sleep, her appearance, her appetite. Lauren got in the car and drove, barely noticing the traffic or the people on the street. Her throat tightened and tears blurred her vision as she pulled into her driveway. She remembered the night her partner lay dying in Cypress Park. Steve had whispered so softly she had to place her ear right next to his lips to hear. “My report ….”

  At the time, she thought he was just rambling, but now she suspected it was the report missing from Records. His dying message to Lauren had been so critical it superseded one to his wife. Did Steve know his killer? Would the report reveal his identity? Her hands gripped the wheel. Where was that fucking paperwork?

  Lauren went indoors and dialed Pamela’s number, trying to formulate an apology for her glaring absence, but there was no excuse for not looking out for her partner’s widow.

  Pamela picked up on the third ring and Lauren heard Rosie shrieking in the background. After a harried greeting, Pamela said she had to get Rosie down for a nap. “Can we get together for a visit, Lauren?”

  “That’s why I called. I wanted to see you, and I have something for the baby.”

  Pamela must have lifted Rosie into her arms. The crying grew louder. “Sorry. When’s your next day off?”

  “Tuesday.”

  Pamela spoke to the baby in soothing tones and the bawling downgraded to soft whimpering. “How about lunch? Here at the house. Twelve thirty?”

  “It’s a date.”

  “Hold on, Lauren.” Pamela hesitated. “Can you do me a favor?”

  “Name it.”

  “There’s a box of Steve’s belongings at the station. I haven’t been able to bring myself to go over there.”

  “No problem. I’ll pick it up and bring it Tuesday.”

  “Thanks. See you then.”

  Lauren clicked off, thinking she should have taken it upon herself to deliver the box to Pamela weeks ago. She closed her eyes, pressing the heel of her palm against her forehead, feeling the onset of a crushing headache.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  APPROACHING A TRAFFIC LIGHT, Wong braked too quickly on the rain-slicked street and the cruiser skidded several feet into the intersection. Lauren barely noticed. Water lashed the windshield and the swishing of the wipers produced an almost hypnotic effect. It was a slow night. Midnight had come and gone without a single call from Dispatch. Outside, the streets were deserted and even the most steadfast hookers had abandoned their roosts. Just as well, since neither she nor Wong had a desire to leave the comfort of the vehicle.

  “So. Want to tell me what’s going on?” he asked.

  Lauren pulled her fixed stare away from the wipers. “Come again?”

  “You’re distracted, Lauren. Like in Never-Never Land. You haven’t said a word in thirty minutes. I’m a good listener if you want to talk.”

  Lauren released a world-weary sigh. “I’m seeing Steve’s wife on Tuesday. I’ve been avoiding her since the funeral. I feel so damn guilty.”

  “Whew. My sympathies. That ain’t gonna be a joyride.”

  “Worst of all, she thinks I’m a hero.”

  “Why shouldn’t she?” The light ch
anged, he stepped on the gas and drove through the intersection, spraying a wave of water over the curb. “You just got her husband’s killer off the streets, and you’ve been tossed some impressive laurels by the top brass. They’re beating their chests all over the city.”

  “My laurels are feeling pretty prickly right now.” Lauren laced her fingers tightly together.

  “Man, you’re wrapped tighter than a tamale. Loosen up.”

  Silence.

  “What gives?”

  “Okay, David, I’ll level with you. I don’t deserve all the hoopla.”

  His brow furrowed, but respectfully, he waited for her to continue.

  “Gordon Keener isn’t Steve’s killer. The real killer is still out there.”

  “What the hell?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “We got all night.”

  Again, she retreated into silence, then blurted in one long stream, “Here’s the deal. Gordon’s mother is dying of cancer. The detectives think the Keeners set up the assaults to heal her cancer or insure her a cush position in the afterlife. By sacrificing virgins, they believe they’re scoring points with some high-ranking Greek god called Dionysus. Specifically, the God of Ecstasy and Regeneration.”

  David was quiet for a long moment. “What a freaking load of crap.”

  “Not to them. As heinous as these crimes were, Gordon’s motivation doesn’t appear to be a sadistic need to torture women. He believed he was doing a service to his mother. His devotion to Agnes is obsessive. She has some kind of mind control over him. That old lady is pure evil.”

  David glanced at her, his expression disbelieving.

  “I know, I know. Sounds crazy. But here’s the clincher. The night he shot at me, he used some old, rusty semi-automatic Sig Sauer registered to Agnes. Clearly, the Keeners aren’t gun hawks. Steve, on the other hand, was shot by an expert marksman with a high-powered rifle and armor-piercing bullets. The Keeners made no attempt to hide any of the evidence linking them to their crimes. All the implements used in the assaults were at the crime scene. But the rifle wasn’t. Why would that one piece of evidence be missing? That strikes me as oddly out of character. Without much coaxing, Gordon confessed to the sexual assaults. But in the note he planted in Courtney’s book-bag, he claimed he didn’t shoot Steve. He adamantly stuck to that story in interrogation.”