Cold Hit (2005)

by Stephen - Scully 05 Cannell

  “Yep.”

  “All and all, a pretty wild day.”

  I could tell from her tone that her anger had dissipated.

  She looked over at me. “Not knowing where you were made me realize how much I need you. So I guess there’s some good that comes from everything.”

  I had decided to push ahead regardless of my new jeopardy with the feds.

  “I got a cold hit on the bullet we dug out of Andrazack’s head,” I said, positioning myself for an argument.

  “Send it to Agent Nix.”

  “Right.” I took a sip of my beer. “Problem is, it matches a slug that killed an LAPD officer named Martin Kobb, in ‘ninety-five.”

  She peered at me in the dark. “Really.”

  “Yep. Unsolved case. Open homicide. This guy Kobb was off-duty and walked into a Russian market on Melrose, interrupted a burg in progress. He pulls his piece, badda-bing, badda-boom, he gets it in the head. Bullet is from the same gun that killed Andrazack.”

  “You’re sure?”

  I’d come prepared. I pulled out the fax pictures of the two bullets and the case write-up that Karen sent me.

  Our ballistics lab has a comparison microscope, which is basically two microscopes mounted side by side, connected by an optical bridge. She had retrieved the Kobb bullet from the cold case evidence room and photographed it next to Andrazack’s using 40X magnification. The photo lined both slugs up back to back. Bullets can have as few as three, or as many as thirty different land and groove impressions. This one had twelve, and they lined up perfectly.

  I handed the photo to Alexa. She held it to the light and studied it for a full minute or more.

  “So here’s my question,” I said. “How does the Los Angeles Police Department look the other way on this? This guy was a brother officer. With the addition of this new ballistic evidence, how can we refuse to reopen the Martin Kobb investigation?”

  “Shit. You’re a tricky bastard,” she said softly.

  “A lucky one, too. Just as one mount gets shot out from under me, along comes another horse to ride.” “And you want … ?”

  “This cold case. Assign me, and Detectives Broadway and Perry to investigate.”

  “And when you run straight into Agent Nix and his flock of drooling jackals, what do you say?”

  “We’ll say, ‘Nice to see you, Agent Nix. Hope all is going well on the Andrazack hit. We’re just over here investigating this poor, dead LAPD officer from ‘ninety-five.’

  “And you think they won’t go right up the wall?”

  “Let ‘em. You tell me, how can they take Marty Kobb away from us? The fact that it may be the same shooter who killed Andrazack is just one of those things.”

  Alexa sat for a long time, thinking about it. She knew I was on solid ground technically. We had standing to work our own police officer’s murder. But still, it put us in direct violation of an order from the head of California Homeland Security and the SAC of the local FBI.

  This is the kind of wonderful stuff that, when it happens, makes me relish police work.

  “I’ll need to clear it with Tony. Write everything down so I’ll have it for him to review.”

  “You don’t need to clear it with him. You’re the head of the Detective Bureau. All you have to do is reactivate this cold case and give it to me.”

  “I’m gonna talk to Tony.”

  “Chicken,” I challenged.

  “Maybe,” she said softly. “But a lot is on the table, here. Not the least of which is the safety of a man I love.”

  “I like the sentiment, but you’re still a wuss.”

  She put the ballistics report back into the envelope then smiled and said, “Nice save.”

  Chapter 30

  I arrived at Parker Center for the 8 A. M. Fingertip task force meeting. I decided there was little point in getting into it with Underwood over leaking Andrazack’s identity. He’d just deny it anyway. Besides, if Tony approved my transfer, this would be my last day in Underland.

  “I have good news to report,” Underwood called out, bringing the morning coffee din under control. “I put the hat on John Doe Number One.” Making it sound as if he had gone out and beat the pavement for the ID himself. Then he turned, and under a picture of John Doe Number One taped up on the rolling blackboard, he wrote in magic marker:

  VAUGHN ROLAINE

  Something about the name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t pin it down. “This identification was a direct result of canvassing the VAs,” Underwood said. “Vaughn Rolaine was not a medic, but was in Nam. He held a panhandling sign near the 101 freeway claiming to be a vet. This vic is a fixture in that neighborhood. He’s been living for years in Sherman Oaks Park. Starting this morning, we’re gonna be out there talking to everybody. Maybe someone saw the unsub target this man.”

  As Underwood droned on, my mind flashed back to the night Zack and I caught the first Fingertip murder, now identified as Vaughn Rolaine. We were next up on the callout board at Homicide Special, so we went home early. It was a Friday night and we were pretty sure we’d get some action. Fridays, Saturdays, and Wednesdays were big homicide nights in L. A.

  We got the squeal at midnight. Zack beat me to the address. The body was in the river at Woodman Avenue near Valleyheart Drive. The L. A. River and the 101 freeway ran next to each other in that part of town, but the body had been dumped about a half a mile beyond where the freeway and the riverbank separated, probably so the unsub wouldn’t be seen from the 101. That meant that if Vaughn Rolaine lived in Sherman Oaks Park, he was moved almost two miles. We were called because the patrolmen who were first on the scene told dispatch that all the victim’s fingertips were cut off. Any mutilation of that nature was deemed outside the norm, and caused the case to be kicked over to Homicide Special. That was seven and a half weeks ago, but it seemed more like a year.

  I kept circling my memories of that night. Zack was sitting in a brown Crown Victoria from the Flower Street motor pool, having left his windowless white Econoline van at home. I stood on the curb waiting for the MEs to arrive. I remember looking into Zack’s car and noticing that he was crying. Later that night, after we left the crime scene, he broke down and told me that Fran had thrown him out the day before and was demanding a divorce. After that, Zack deteriorated rapidly. His drinking got worse. He seemed to stop caring.

  The name Vaughn Rolaine again flickered like a faltering light bulb in my brain. I almost had it, but just as I came close, the thought went dark again. When I tried to coax the memory back, it was gone.

  “Everybody break up into your teams,” Underwood shrilled, jolting me into the present. “Scully, you’re in my office.”

  Damn, I thought. How do I get off this guy’s shit list?

  I pushed my broken chair out of the coffee room, and after parking it at my dented desk and checking good old extension 86 for messages, I headed into his office.

  As soon as I entered he said, “So far, my friend, you have been a colossal waste of time, money, and energy. We wasted a full fucking day and three grand on that dumb funeral idea of yours, and what does it come to? Nothing! I want you to call Forest Lawn back and knock down their expenses. Get it under a grand. I’m not approving these numbers.” He held up the invoice. “The Andrazack murder isn’t even part of this Fingertip case anymore. I’m not approving money spent on a crime I’m not even assigned to.”

  “It’s too late,” I said. “You already approved it. Besides, how can it not be part of the case? The body had the secret medic’s symbol carved on his chest.” Since I knew he was ratting us out to R. A. Virtue, I was just pushing him to see what would happen.

  “I have been told by the special agent in charge of the FBI office downtown, that this murder is no longer any of our concern,” he snapped.

  “But how do you explain that carved symbol?” I persisted, and watched him fidget.

  “You don’t listen very well, do you?” he said.

  “I listen fine. I just d
on’t get this. Either this building is leaking info and we have a huge security problem, or Andrazack was killed by our Fingertip unsub and should still be part of this case.”

  “The case has been transferred. Get over it.” He had raised the volume, so the good news was, at least I was getting to him.

  “I know you want off this task force,” he continued. “Worse than that, you’re a vindictive son of a bitch who’s looking to screw me up any way possible. But I have a way to fix that.” He smiled coldly. “Who was it that said, ‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer’?”

  “Daffy Duck. No, wait, don’t tell me Donald.”

  “You’re a funny flicking guy. But the fact is, you’re gonna be stuck right here, close to me. You’re our new inside man. You sit at your desk where I can watch you right though that window.” He pointed at the plate glass that faced the squad room. “You’ll coordinate paperwork and answer calls.”

  “Evidence clerk and switchboard operator?”

  “I’ll have somebody brief you on exactly how I want it done. There’s going to be protocol right down to the phrase we use to announce this task force when we answer phones.”

  “Right. A good phrase is always helpful.” I turned and started for the door.

  “And Scully …”

  I turned back.

  “I’ve read your Professional Standards Bureau folder. It’s a train wreck.”

  That file was supposed to be secure, but everybody in law enforcement seemed to have a copy. When this case was over, instead of trying to write a best-selling Fingertip book, maybe I should just go with all this overwhelming interest and publish my 181 file.

  He continued. “I don’t like what I see in there. You seem to do things any old damn way you please. Reading between the lines, and judging from what you just said, it would be just like you to try and go around this direct order from California Homeland, and work on Davide Andrazack’s murder without jurisdiction.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you have authority issues.”

  “Right.”

  “You’re down to your last straw with me, mister. Make one more mistake around here and you’ll be hammered dog shit.”

  I turned and walked out of the office. Jesus H. McGillicutty. How do I keep stepping into it with guys like this?

  I walked through the squad room and decided to get into the elevator, go down to the lobby and step outside for some air. But instead of pushing L, for some reason I pushed 4.

  A few minutes later I was in the small cubicle office of Roger Broadway and Emdee Perry. They both looked beat up and subdued. I figured Lieutenant Cubio had rained all over them like Underwood had just done with me.

  “There’s a life lesson here,” Perry drawled. “It ain’t never smart to dig up more snakes than you can kill.”

  With that sentiment hanging in the air, I told them both about Martin Kobb.

  Chapter 31

  At three o’clock that afternoon I was summoned to the chief’s office. Alexa met me in the hallway as I came off the elevator.

  “Tony came through,” she said.

  “Great.”

  She nodded, but looked worried. We walked down the hall to where Broadway and Perry were seated in the chief’s outer office with Lieutenant Cubio.

  Cubio always reminded me of a Latin street G—short and dangerous, with a dark complexion and spiked black hair. But he spoke four languages and had thrown himself in front of more than one pissed-off superior to protect his troops. He was a Glass House legend and Detective Division fave.

  The three men stood as we arrived. Bea Tompson, the hawk-faced guardian of the chief’s time and space had already announced us.

  Tony came to the door with his jacket off and motioned us inside. The office was spacious, but sparsely decorated. His gray metal furniture was all from the Xerox catalog and was pushed up against the walls giving the room the look of a dance studio. A huge window that looked out over the city dominated the east wall.

  “I read your briefing.” Tony said, facing me. “You guys sure you wanta do this? Homeland plays rough. They can skirt my authority pretty easy. I might not be able to cover you if it gets nasty.”

  “Yes sir. We want to do this,” I said, glancing at Broadway and Perry who both nodded in agreement.

  “Okay. Armando, gimme your take,” Tony said. “What’s really going on with these humps over at Homeland?”

  “Sir, I’ve told you about the embassy and consulate leaks, but bad as that is, in my opinion it’s just a symptom, not the disease. There’s more at stake here than just leaks or who killed this Israeli national. It’s also more than some foreign embassy rogues going off the reservation. Something dangerous is shifting the ground, and we’re completely in the dark. We gotta find a way to get in the game or risk being set up and embarrassed.”

  Tony looked at me then held up my case notes. “Your brief says you think there may be a roving bug planted on the three of you. Is that right?”

  “That’s what Roger and Emdee think.” We told him about finding the transmitter on the Fairlane and our suspicions that it was planted by the feds.

  “Man, I’ve got a big problem with that whole new roving bug idea,” Tony said. “How do you supervise it?” He looked at Alexa. “You got an electronic sweep going on our shop? Computers, phones, everything?”

  “Yes, sir. Sam Oxman in the Electronic Services Division is handling it. Top priority. I had him sweep your office first thing this morning. So far he’s found nothing.”

  Tony looked at us for a long moment, rocking back and forth on oxblood loafers that were shined to a diamond brilliance.

  “Okay, good,” he finally said. “I’m gonna authorize you guys to work on the Martin Kobb murder. I agree something ain’t right here. I’ll tell ya this much. If we find bugs in this building, I’m gonna go ballistic. If the FBI or anybody else in the Justice Department is planting bugs on a sister agency, then all bets are off. Whatever happens from this point on, only the six of us will be involved. I want everybody to keep your phone and e-mail communications to a minimum, and if you do use ‘em keep it vague. Talk between the lines until our electronic sweep is complete. Also, we’ve got some new scrambled SAT phones in ESD. They’re state-of-the-art and can’t be breached. Lieutenant Scully will get one for each of us. We gotta assume we’re wide open here. Only discuss the case outside this building or on those secure ESD phones.”

  “Sir?” I said, and Tony turned to face me.

  “I need to be reassigned off the Fingertip task force. Agent Underwood has me on files and communications. I’m not supposed to leave the building.”

  “Pissed him off, didn’t ya?” I didn’t answer, so Tony said, “Okay. You’re reassigned. Where’s your partner? You probably want him on this with you.”

  I looked over at Alexa.

  “He’s on medical leave right now. I don’t think he’s currently available,” she said.

  “Alright. Shane, you’re temporarily reassigned to CTB. You’ll work out of their offices under Lieutenant Cubio’s supervision. That’s it,” Tony said.

  We waited in the hallway outside the chief’s office while Alexa remained behind for a short operations meeting.

  Cubio was frowning. “I don’t like R. A. Virtue,” the lieutenant said. “Never trust some asshole who uses initials instead of a name. Besides that, he’s got a very unique take on the law.” Not exactly news to three cops who just spent ten hours locked up in the Tishman Building.

  The chief’s door opened and Alexa came out. “Okay, it’s done. I’ll notify Underwood.”

  I headed down to CTB with Roger, Emdee, and Armando.

  “You really think somebody has a wire inside this division?” the lieutenant asked, as we entered his office. He started scanning the walls as if some high-tech bug might actually be beeping there, ominously.

  “Could be,” Broadway said.

  “Then let’s get outta here until
ESD finishes with this floor.”

  He led us down to the lobby and half a block away to an outdoor restaurant. We sat on hot metal stools in the late afternoon sun and ordered coffee.

  “One thing I want you guys to know,” Cubio said. “Whatever is happening with Homeland, there’s still a dead patrolman in the mix. When a brother officer gets shot somebody’s got to pay the price.” His face hardened. “Kobb’s murder might be ten years old, but somebody has to go down for it.”

  The next morning, while Broadway and Perry ran an extensive background on Davide Andrazack, using something they referred to as covert resources, I visited the Records Division on the third basement level of the Glass House and started digging out the case notes filed by the two sets of detectives who worked on Kobb’s murder. In 1995 nobody filed old cases on computer disks so there was a ton of paper.

  The two primaries who caught the original squeal were Steve Otto and Cindy Blackman from the Internal Affairs Division. Back then IAD handled all cop killings. Under the current scheme, police officer shootings were investigated by Homicide Special. Otto and Blackman were finally replaced after the ‘01 reorganization, and Al Nye and Salvador Paoluccia from Homicide Special got the case.

  That was before I was transferred here, but I knew Sal from my time in the Valley. He had a good sense of humor, loved baseball, was a popular guy, but was sort of a screw around. He was no longer assigned to Homicide Special.

  I found a desk and started plowing through the reams of case notes. Otto and Blackman were thorough and meticulous. Detective Blackman had neat handwriting with a slight, backward slant and she drew cute, feminine circles over her I’s, something I’m sure heckling, fellow officers had broken her of by now. Otto printed in bold, angry, slashing strokes. You could tell a lot about detectives from their paperwork. It was apparent from the thorough nature of their notes that they had desperately wanted to clear this case and had worked it vigorously.

  In 2001, Paoluccia and Nye took over. By then it was officially a cold case—a grounder that had rolled foul. Nobody wanted it because there wasn’t much chance it would ever be solved. Sal and Al had done what is known commonly in police parlance, as a drive-by investigation. Their notes and case write-ups looked slap dash. What it amounted to was they had blown it a kiss and moved on. Kobb’s wife had left L. A. after his death and gone back to Iowa. She died a year later of ovarian cancer.