No windows here, I think, and she’s no cat.
“Heather?” I try again.
She laughs, an awful braying laugh, like a donkey trying to speak human. I jerk back, startled by its suddenness. It stops just as suddenly, and the eyes go back to roving. Her right hand goes to her left forearm, and she starts picking.
“No, no, honey,” I say, keeping my voice as soft and soothing as I can. I reach over to move her hand away.
“Nooooo!” she screams, jerking away from me. Her mouth opens a little and she juts her chin out. It’s meant to be a gesture of defiance. It makes her look primitive, cavewomanish. I pull my hand away. “Sorry,” I say.
She starts picking again. The eyes go back to roving. “She’s not ready,” Alan says.
I want him to be wrong, but I know he’s right. Some part of me—the selfish, ugly part—wants to shake her, tell her to snap out of it. It only lasts a second, though.
I reach into my purse and find a business card. I show it to Heather. “This is my card, Heather. It has my name and my number on it. I’m from the FBI, and I want to find the man who did this to you. When you’re ready to talk, just ask for me.” I stand up and lay the card on her bedside table, at the base of the humongous lamp. “Let’s go,” I say to Alan.
I don’t think she even notices that we’ve left the room.
“What’s the verdict, Doctor?” I ask.
Dr. Mills appears to be a decent guy. He’s in his mid-to-late thirties, balding early, and he looks like he’s probably tired all the time, but I sense genuine care there. I tend to be sensitive to that kind of thing.
“She’s got various vitamin and calcium deficiencies. We’re working to correct those. She needs to put on some weight. Aside from that, she has no other major physical problems. I expect her to bounce back.” He sighs. “Mentally? That’s another story. I’ve asked for a psych consult, which will happen this afternoon. She’s obviously in the middle of a psychotic episode. I’m fine keeping her where she’s at temporarily, but she needs medication and psychiatric help.”
“What about the picking thing?” I ask. “Biting her lips?”
“I’m actually encouraged by that.”
Alan frowns. “Come again?”
“She stops after doing superficial harm to herself. Look, I’ve had people in here who have cut off their own noses; I had a guy who said he was a reincarnation of van Gogh, which is why he’d chopped off both of his ears with a set of gardening shears and sent them to the object of his affection. Heather knows when to stop. That’s a good sign.”
“You’ll let us know of any change? I left my card on her bedside table.”
“Of course. And please find out if she had a general practitioner. If I can get her old medical records, I’d appreciate it.”
Alan stops and turns as we’re walking away. “Two ears? I thought van Gogh only cut off one?”
Dr. Mills shrugs. It’s a tired shrug, to go with his tired face. “He said just one didn’t work last time.”
Callie calls me as we’re getting onto the freeway. She talks as I watch the hills of burned grass and fire-withered trees roll by. The last few years of wildfires have been especially hard on Southern California.
“Heather Hollister’s partner on the job died of a heart attack last year,” she begins, “but I have the case files.”
“What did you tell the locals?”
“I told them that profiling was an ever-evolving science and that we’re going over old cases with a new eye in the hopes that we’d see something we missed before.”
“Where are you now?”
“About twenty minutes from the office.”
I check the exit sign to see where we are. “We’ll see you there in thirty.” I hang up. “Callie got the case files,” I tell Alan.
He nods. “Good. Let’s get some meat on this bone. I feel like a dog gnawing air.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Callie holds the case file as she sits in her desk chair. Alan nurses his coffee, while James sits with both arms on his desk, hands folded, like a schoolboy. I’m standing at the dry-erase whiteboard, marker in hand.
This is one of our methods, started on the first day of the first case we all worked together. I remember that day now, for some reason. I was nervous, not quite thirty, uncertain. I’d been involved with the FBI for years, my responsibilities steadily increasing, but this had been a quantum leap. I was now a boss, in charge of life and death and catching the creatures so concerned with these things in Los Angeles. I felt vulnerable and terrified.
I’d overdressed, wearing an expensive tailored blue business outfit, which I never wore again. James had just shocked me with some caustic remark. Alan was huge and imposing and not yet friendly, because he was checking me out, trying to decide if he should be taking orders from an agent with a lot less experience than he had. Callie was … well, Callie. Quick-tongued and more beautiful than I’d ever be. As a team, we started out slow and halting, gears grinding like a teenager’s first attempt to drive a stick shift. It took some time, but we found our rhythm. The board became our shared mind.
“Let’s start at the beginning,” I say. “Tell us about Heather. What kind of cop was she?”
Laying out a case graphically like this helps us see the whole picture. It’s not unusual to walk into this office and find all of us sitting, staring at the whiteboard like it’s a religious artifact.
“Heather Hollister,” Callie reads. “Got a BA in criminology and then went into the police academy. Graduated a week after her twenty-third birthday.”
“Thinking ahead with the criminology BA,” Alan notes. “Helps later when she applies for detective. Smart.”
“Or driven,” I say. “She was certain she wanted to be a cop right out of high school. Civic-minded or something else?” I look at Callie. “Anything in her file?”
Callie flips through Heather’s personnel file. She nods. “There is something here from her psych eval. Her father. He owned a tire shop in Hollywood. He was killed during a robbery when Heather was twelve.” Callie sighs. “My, my. Mother solved the need for income by remarrying an abusive husband. He beat on her regularly—her name was Margaret—until Heather was sixteen. Heather had the presence of mind to take video of her stepfather beating up her mother. She took the video to the detective who’d been investigating her father’s murder.” She pauses, reading ahead.
“And?” James asks, impatient.
“Hold thy horses. Things get murky here. Something about … apparently the video was thrown out of court because of the way she acquired it…. Margaret wouldn’t testify against her abuser …” She frowns, reads on a little further, and then her face clears. “Ah. There’s a notation here from the evaluator. A paraphrased snippet of conversation.
“So what happened to your stepfather?” “He went away.” “He died?” (SUBJECT SMILES HERE) “No. Detective Burns talked to him and he decided to leave us alone after that.”
Callie looks up from the file, smiling.
“I can read between the lines,” Alan says. “Detective Burns, and maybe some of his friends, had a talk with the stepfather that probably involved severe bruising and promises to make his life a living hell if he didn’t clear out. Street justice.”
I write two things on the whiteboard: Became a cop because father killed. And: Detective Burns connection.
“We need to find Burns,” I say. “He took an interest in the family, Heather in particular. He’ll have insight.” Something else occurs to me. “Did the psych ask Heather if the stepfather ever abused her too?”
Callie puts her finger on the page and skims through the notes. Stops. “Yes, he asked. She said no. She said he basically ignored her. Mommy got all his love.”
“Lucky,” James says. “Statistically, she was at risk of sexual abuse.”
All debate and bias aside, stepchildren are more likely to be the victims of abuse than genetic children. It’s called the “Cinderella effect,”
and, though controversial, I’ve seen it proven out in my own experience. Younger children are the ones most likely to suffer heavy physical abuse to the point of death, while older children are the biggest targets of sexual abuse.
“Did they ever solve her father’s murder?” Alan asks.
Callie flips back through pages in the file. “No.”
“And?” I ask. “Did the evaluator take that up?”
“Oh yes. It was a big concern for him.” She flips pages, one and then another. “He spent quite a bit of time on it.”
“What was his conclusion?”
“He concluded that her father’s death had driven her to become a police officer but that he was satisfied it wasn’t an obsession. The usual blah de blah about how the police force, as a group, had become her father figure. The matriarchy—Mom—had betrayed her, so she identified with a largely patriarchal group like law enforcement.”
“I see some truth to that,” James says.
“She was driven,” I say, “but not obsessive. Driven to what?”
James considers the question. “Competence, for one,” he answers. “Competence, as a law-enforcement officer, would be very important. She empathizes with the victims, so shoddy work would be anathema to her.”
“Her sense of injustice would be highly developed,” I say, picking up the thread, “the little guy getting the short end of the stick. Really, if you think about it, she’d have to be obsessive to some degree. Not about her father’s murder, maybe, but any case she was on would get her full attention. Unsolveds would weigh on her. She’d be the kind of cop who takes case files home with her.”
“All of which bears out in her personnel history,” Callie says. “She was in patrol for the required four years and did very well. Numerous commendations, almost all of them unsolicited and from citizens. The only complaints from that time are from other cops.”
“Detectives, right?” Alan asks.
Callie looks up at him, surprised. “That’s right. How did you know?”
“I know the kind of cop she was. See, patrol is usually first on the scene, but they’re not investigative. It’s their job to contain things and turn it over to the relevant detective squad. Patrol does all the grunt work, but they’re not generally a part of the investigation.” He shrugs. “You get a cop like Hollister, she’s a pit bull. Gets her teeth in and can’t let go. She feels like the detectives aren’t giving a case the attention it needs, she bugs them about it. Maybe she goes out and does interviews she wasn’t asked to do or digs up some new evidence. Some cops appreciate that. It’s all about the solve, the victim, so no problem.” He grimaces in distaste. “But you get the few assholes that are caste-oriented. It’s about territory and status, and they don’t appreciate someone in patrol doing more than what they’re supposed to, regardless of results.” He smiles. “They usually go on to become police commissioners.”
“What happened after the four years in patrol?” I ask.
“She was promoted to detective. She started in juvenile crimes and was there for almost two years. She went from there to vice.”
“Mom to whore,” Alan says. “Nice to know some things haven’t changed since I was in the LAPD.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“She got put into juvenile crimes because she was a woman. They figure women will relate to the kids better because women are mommies, so forth. Then she was put into vice, which can be a great unit to build a jacket with, but I can guarantee you she didn’t start on the plum side. They stuck in her some thigh-high boots and a miniskirt, and she was out there catching johns.”
“True,” Callie confirms, “but our pit bull didn’t let that stop her. She forged relationships with other prostitutes over a year period. She parlayed that into a medium-size bust of a human-trafficking ring. People took note, and somehow she ended up in homicide.”
“Burns,” Alan says.
“The detective?” I ask.
He nods. “He was her hook into homicide. She had the chops, of course, but that’s almost never enough. You need someone watching out for you too. Putting in the good word. I’d bet money that for her, that was Burns.”
“Be that as it may,” Callie continues, “homicide is where Heather really hit her stride. She had a very good solve rate.” She raises her eyebrows in appreciation. “Very good. She was promoted to second grade on merit within six years.” She looks up from the file. “Just before she went missing.”
“How old is she?” I ask, wondering why I hadn’t asked this question before.
Callie consults the file. “She’s a hair past forty-four.”
“If she’s been gone for eight years,” James notes, “she was abducted when she was thirty-six. Her sons were two, meaning she waited until she was thirty-four to have them.”
“Not so old,” I say.
“No,” he allows, “but it keeps with the profile of career coming first. She waited until she’d been in homicide for almost four years. Until her position was secure.”
“Tell me about her marriage,” I say.
Callie goes back to the file. “Douglas Hollister. Systems administrator for a nationwide Internet service provider. One year older than Heather. They met when she was twenty-six and she was still in uniform. His car had been stolen; she was the reporting officer. They were married two years later.”
“Was he looked at in the initial investigation?” James asks. “He should have been.”
In all crimes against persons, you investigate family first. Sad but true.
Callie puts down Heather’s personnel file and picks up one of five large folders.
“Those all case files?” Alan asks. “Yes,” Callie replies.
He whistles. “They pulled out the stops.”
Callie opens the file and leafs through it. Finds something and stops. “The investigating officer was …” She stops, surprised. “My, my. The investigating officer was none other than Detective Daryl Burns.” She continues reading. “Yes, it appears he zeroed in on the husband. The husband even filed a complaint at one point.”
“Why?” Alan asks. “Besides the obvious reasons?”
“There was trouble on the home front, apparently. During the initial interview, Hollister had said that all was well and lovely in the marriage. That was a lie. Burns found that Hollister had been consulting with a divorce attorney and that Heather had hired a private investigator.”
“The investigator turn up anything?” Alan asks.
Callie pulls a letter-size manila envelope from the file and opens it. She removes the contents and lays them on her desk. We all crowd around. It’s a stack of photographs, 8×10 black-and-whites, five in total. They show a man entering a hotel room with a woman. As they enter, he’s wearing a tie and a furtive look. As they exit, he’s laughing with the woman, and the tie is stuffed in his side jacket pocket.
“Douglas Hollister, I presume,” Callie murmurs.
I pick up one of the photos showing him from the front and study it. He’s a handsome enough man, in an unremarkable way. Short hair, suit fits well enough to tell me he goes to the gym. He has a pleasant, easy smile. It’s the kind of smile that women like, because it belongs on a solid, trustworthy man.
The woman is attractive as well, though not breathtaking. I’d guess she’s about the same age as Douglas Hollister, with a little weight around the middle and a hairstyle that’s five years too old. She’s looking up at him as he laughs.
“She adores him,” I say. I show the picture to James. He nods.
“This was a love thing, not a fling,” Callie says, after her own observation. “She’s not a young hottie-body. Definitely housewife, not coed.”
I flip the photo over and see a date stamp there. “When was Heather abducted?”
“April twentieth,” Callie replies.
“One month after these photos were taken,” I say. “I can see why Burns was suspicious.”
I walk back over to the whiteboard and write
on it: Husband/Affair, PI photos one month before abduct. Then: Husband consid. divorce, consults attny.
“Let’s get back to the husband. I want to hear about the abduction.”
“Subject’s car was found in gym parking lot, eleven fifty-three P.M. Car keys discovered on the pavement, near the door. No other signs of struggle. No witnesses.”
“She had the keys in her hand, ready to enter her car when she was taken,” James observes. “He surprised her.”
“What was she doing there?” I ask Callie.
“Once-a-week kickboxing-cardio class.”
“When did the class end? Does it say?”
“Of course it does, honey-love. They traveled down all the same mental paths as you. The class began at seven and ended at eight. The gym was only ten minutes away, and according to the husband she was always prompt in returning home. When she hadn’t answered her cell phone or arrived home by eleven o’clock, he called her partner.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Three hours? Why’d he wait so long?” I pause. “Ah. Right. I’ll bet he said that he wasn’t all that worried because she was a cop.”
“Point to you,” Callie confirms.
“Where’d she park?” I ask.
“It doesn’t say.”
“And no one noticed anything?”
“No. Too busy feeling the burn, I suppose.”
I shake my head. “Whoever took her was confident and accomplished. Maybe overconfident, certainly a risk taker. A well-lit parking lot not long after the class let out? Daring.”
“Strike the well-lit,” Callie says. “They noted that all three of the lights nearest where Heather was parked were out. Expertly vandalized.”
I turn to Alan. “She’s a cop. How would she think and how would he use that against her?”
He ponders this. “It’s a tough one. She worked homicide, so she’d know that the moment she climbed into a vehicle with him, her chances of survival would be lowered. I guess if I were him … I’d stick a gun in her back and tell her if she said a word, I’d shoot her. Cops know better than anyone that you listen to a man with a gun. You cooperate and wait for an opening.”
Abandoned sb-4 Page 10
