by Dianne Emley
The lobby was simply furnished with long wooden benches. Public announcements were posted on a cork bulletin board. Another wall displayed photographs of all the police department employees, both sworn and civilian. They were arranged in a pyramid, in order of department hierarchy. At the top was Betsy Gilroy.
Kissick knew her in passing as she had spent many years with the Pasadena P.D., starting fresh from the Academy and rising to lieutenant before she left for the opportunity to be deputy chief of the Colina Vista PD. The city’s then-chief was planning to retire. While there was no guarantee that Gilroy would be a shoo-in for the top job, she soon proved herself to the police department, mayor, city council, and citizens. She still had many friends in the Pasadena P.D., and enjoyed a close relationship with Chief Haglund.
Her official photo on the station wall showed a woman with a pleasant face that might be considered pretty in the right light and circumstances. Pretty was not an advantage here. She looked accessible in the photo, while hinting at toughness behind the bright eyes. She was in her early fifties.
Shortly, the woman herself came through the door into the front office and through the swinging gate into the lobby. She wore navy-blue slacks with a tailored blue-and-white striped shirt tucked into them, small, gold stud earrings, and a plain gold wedding band.
“Detective Kissick. So nice to see you again.”
“Nice to see you, Chief.” Kissick would have been surprised if she did remember him, but she seemed sincere.
“Nice of you to visit us here in Colina Vista. How is your boss, Sergeant Early?”
Her emerald-colored eyes stood out against her tanned skin. Her face was deeply lined, showing the brunt of years in the sun. Kissick could imagine her on a golf course. She was still lean and athletic-looking, although she had filled out a little since her PPD days. She wore her hair in a short yet feminine style with feathery layers. It was many shades of gold. If the color wasn’t natural, it had been so artfully done, it was impossible to tell. She stood five feet, four inches, but was one of those people who possessed a natural gravitas: She seemed big and cut a commanding presence. One would have to be either naïve or foolish to mess with her.
“Sergeant Early is doing great and she told me to tell you hello.”
“Please send her my best. Kendra and I go way back.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Let’s talk in my office.”
She walked ahead of Kissick, holding open the swinging gate for him. She used a key to unlock the door at the rear of the front office. The neighborly Colina Vista PD. was not completely immune to security issues. They entered a long plain corridor.
“Have you ever been to our police station before, Detective?”
“I have, but never past the lobby.”
Gilroy pointed to a door with a reinforced glass window. A set of gun lockers was bolted to the wall outside it. “Our holding cells. I’m happy to say that they aren’t used often.”
She started walking down the corridor. “When I first came here from the Pasadena P.D., I thought, my gosh, this place is dead. I’ll die of boredom.”
Kissick smiled.
“But I’ve learned that it takes a lot of hard work to maintain the high quality of life and small-town atmosphere that we enjoy in Colina Vista.”
“Keeping the wolves at bay.”
“That’s true in more ways than one, Detective. We often have more problems with wildlife than humans here.”
He laughed and nodded.
There was a snap in her walk and in her speech, as if she possessed boundless vitality. Her persistent smile suggested perennial good humor, but Kissick knew that no one became police chief, even of a small city, without being able to bust heads as well as being politically savvy. He expected that the job was many times harder to be effective at for a woman.
She continued singing the praises of her city. “Colina Vista is consistently named one of the most desirable places to live in L.A. County. It’s a testament to the residents’ commitment to their community that the city has remained independent, even without a commercial tax base. We’ve thrived yet still manage to do things our own way. We feel we’re pretty special. We’re like Mayberry and we’re just a short drive from L.A.”
They passed offices with large reinforced glass windows in which a few uniformed officers, all men, sat at desks, writing reports on computers or filling out forms in longhand. The officers were trading wisecracks and laughing until they caught sight of Gilroy, when they whipped back to their work.
Kissick said, “When I first started with the Pasadena P.D. thirteen years ago, the department was smaller. Everyone knew everyone else. Now we’re so much bigger and it’s tough to have the same familiarity. I have to say I miss that.” He was quick to add, “But Pasadena has one of the top mid-size police departments in the country. It’s a great place to be.”
“I loved my time there.”
They passed large framed photographs tracing the history of Colina Vista, from its beginnings as a pioneer town and later, mountain resort, up through today. The corridor turned. In contrast with the utilitarian doors elsewhere, they reached an impressive edifice of rich dark wood. A brass plaque said EXECUTIVE OFFICES. Gilroy led the way inside. The plain linoleum floor changed to short-pile burgundy carpet. The walls here were not the practical beige of the rest of the station but were a warm caramel, the color of crème brûlée.
A secretary was sitting at a desk outside an office where a plaque beside the door said BETSY GILROY, CHIEF. She looked up as they went inside. “Chief, Kate Sanderson returned your call.”
“Thanks, Anita.”
Gilroy walked to her desk. “Please have a seat, Detective Kissick.” She waved to a conversation area that was furnished with a small couch, two upholstered chairs, and a coffee table. “If you’ll excuse me for two minutes. I need to return a phone call.”
“Would you like me to wait outside?”
“No, no … This will just take a second. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
Her office was more expensively decorated than the executive offices of the Pasadena Police Department. The walls were a subtle shade of taupe that was complemented by the off-white ceiling and crown and base moldings. Gilroy’s large desk and the bookcases that lined the walls were walnut and in a clean, understated design. T obacco-brown, raw silk drapes dressed the large corner windows, which gave an expansive view of the nearby mountains. A landscape in a plein air style of those same mountains was on a wall.
Kissick knew that the affluent citizens of Colina Vista were fond of their police chief. He was getting an idea of just how fond they were.
On the phone, Gilroy was discussing arrangements for her acceptance of an award at a banquet to be held at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Near as Kissick could gather, the banquet was a fund-raising event for a nonprofit organization benefiting battered and at-risk women and children. Gilroy dropped the names of a couple of A-list actors who were apparently spokespeople for the organization and who were going to be there.
A credenza beneath the window displayed family photographs in silver frames. From what Kissick could see across the room, Gilroy and her husband had a couple of grown children. There were photos of babies and toddlers, likely grandchildren.
Framed photos and commendations lined the walls. Kissick saw photos of Gilroy with Mel Gibson, with Will Smith, with Angelina Jolie, with Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger, and numerous photos with less glamorous local celebrities and political figures.
Gilroy finished her call, walked to the door, and leaned out. “Anita, I would love a cup of coffee, if you have a second.” She turned to Kissick. “Sure you wouldn’t like anything, Detective. A soft drink … ?”
“A diet soda would be great. Anything you have. Thank you.”
“Ice?”
“Sure. Thank you.”
Gilroy asked Anita for the soft drink, then moved to sit in the chair beside K
issick. She casually crossed her legs. She was wearing low-heeled black pumps of smooth leather with patent-leather toes.
Before they could get started, Anita poked her head inside the office and said, “Lieutenant Johnson reports that Bessie’s at it again.”
“Oh, dear,” Gilroy said.
“She’s in the Peterson’s avocado grove up on Leona Avenue. The lieutenant called Fish and Game and he’s sent a patrol car out there. He just wanted you to know.”
“Thanks, Anita.” Gilroy said to Kissick, “Bessie is a brown bear with a taste for avocados during summer and persimmons during winter.”
“I live in Altadena and we often have bears come down from the foothills and get into people’s garbage. A neighbor found a bear in her Jacuzzi.”
She chuckled and shook her head.
“You’re even further up into the mountains.”
“Yes, we are. We get bears, coyotes, and even mountain lions. We don’t bother counting the skunks, raccoons, and possums. Hopefully, Fish and Game can chase Bessie back up into the hills. Last time, she ran up a fifty-foot pine tree. They blocked off a wide perimeter and it was hours before she came down. Welcome to a typical day for the Colina Vista P.D.”
Gilroy’s amused annoyance over Bessie the bear faded and she became somber. “You came here to talk about the murder of our poor Officer Cookie Silva. On the phone, you said that you think there might be a connection between Cookie’s murder and that terrible attack on one of your female detectives last year. Cookie’s murder was the most heinous crime in Colina Vista’s history.”
Kissick nodded. “I’m aware of that.”
“Then you probably know that Cookie’s murder has long been solved.” The green hue of her eyes deepened.
Kissick felt he was staring into the depths of the ocean. “Yes, ma’am.”
“The murderer is on San Quentin’s death row.” She folded her hands in her lap. “That being said, I certainly want to give any help I can in your unsolved attempted murder. Why do you feel it’s related to our homicide?”
“Chief Gilroy, I appreciate your time. I know the Silva homicide is closed, but I have a curious lead that I need to follow through on. A couple of weeks ago in Old Pasadena, our officers took into custody a transient who had been behaving strangely. He had no ID and refused to speak. Our cops gave him the nickname Nitro.” From his file folder, he took out the Polaroid photo of Nitro.
Gilroy scrutinized it and set it on the coffee table.
“We sent him to County General on a fifty-one fifty. He was treated and released, and that was the last we saw of him.”
The secretary returned carrying a tray. Gilroy reached for coasters from a stack on an end table and put them on the coffee table. Anita set the beverages on top.
“Thank you so much, Anita,” Gilroy said. “Would you mind closing the door on your way out?”
Kissick took a sip of cola before continuing. “Among Nitro’s possessions was a drawing pad and drawing tools. The pad contained illustrations of flowers, trees, animals, and such. They were quite good.”
Gilroy listened attentively. Her gaze was direct and unwavering.
“He also had four drawings that were not as … gentle.” Kissick took out the photocopies of Nitro’s drawings. He found the one of Vining and handed it to Gilroy.
Her gaze darkened as she looked at it.
“That’s our detective, Nan Vining. According to her, that drawing accurately depicts how she was attacked. Are you familiar with the circumstances?”
“I know she was stabbed while she was on patrol. I’d appreciate it if you’d fill in the details.”
“Detective Vining was in uniform, picking up overtime, patrolling Madison Heights.”
Still holding the drawing, Gilroy said, “Over by the Huntington Hotel and the Huntington Hospital.”
“Correct. As you know, that’s one of Pasadena’s safest neighborhoods. It was early evening, near the end of her shift, when she was called out to investigate suspicious circumstances at a house on El Alisal Road. The house was for sale. The owners were absent, and the man who made the call identified himself as the house’s realtor, Dale David. He said he’d arrived there to find a kitchen window open that he was certain he’d locked.
“Detective Vining arrived on-scene and followed this individual into the kitchen. She found him odd. Thought he might be wearing a wig. Their conversation got strange. He didn’t threaten her, but her instincts told her that something wasn’t right. She radioed for backup. Soon after, the guy came at her with a knife. Vining drew her gun and got off a round even though he’d sliced the back of her gun hand. Then he stabbed her in the neck.”
Gilroy frowned.
“He escaped using a route that he’d prepared in advance. Searching the house, we found a police scanner.”
Kissick took out the police artist’s rendering and handed it to her. “That was done based upon Detective Vining’s recollection of the man who attacked her.”
“I remember seeing this in the newspaper.” Gilroy picked up the photo of Nitro and studied them side by side, her lips pressed together.
“Detective Vining said the man who attacked her was in his early thirties. White. She remembers his skin as pasty. Six feet. Medium build. Hair color unknown, because he was probably wearing a wig. Brown eyes, but Vining thought he might be wearing tinted contact lenses.”
Gilroy set the sketch and photo on the coffee table. “How much information was reported by the media?”
“The call-out to the house by the alleged realtor and Detective Vining’s knife wounds.”
“Your Nitro could have drawn this based upon news reports.”
“It’s possible, but Detective Vining says that her assailant held her exactly as shown in this drawing. It’s uncannily accurate.”
Gilroy sucked in her cheeks. “It’s a miracle that your detective survived. Thank God. How is she?”
Kissick flashed on the last time he’d seen Vining, laughing and chatting over breakfast earlier that morning. “She’s doing great.” He detected his own hopefulness. “She’s back on duty. We just broke that big double homicide in the Linda Vista neighborhood.”
“I heard about that. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
Gilroy leaned forward to ape Kissick’s posture. “So, Detective, you haven’t told me what brings you here.”
She wanted him to get on with it. He handed her another of Nitro’s drawings. “That depicts the stabbing murder of Tucson Detective Johnna Alwin. It occurred in a storage closet in a Tucson medical building three years ago.”
Keeping the last paper turned down on his lap, he handed Gilroy the drawing of Marilu Feathers. “That’s California State Park Ranger Marilu Feathers. Eight years ago, she was shot while patrolling a state park near Morro Bay.”
Gilroy nodded as she gravely looked at the drawing. “I remember when that happened.” She set it on the table beside the other two.
“All three of these police officers had killed a man on duty in high-profile incidents that made them minor celebrities. Marilu killed a local pedophile. Johnna Alwin was working undercover when she killed a mafia associate. And Nan Vining—”
“Shot Lonny Velcro, the rock star, at his Pasadena mansion.”
“That’s right.”
“Interesting. You think that the same man is responsible for all three.”
“We have additional evidence linking the murders.”
“You said your Nitro character had four such drawings.” She pointed to the paper that was face-down on Kissick’s lap. “I assume that last one shows Cookie.”
He handed it to her.
Her reactions to the other materials had been appropriate and, Kissick felt, sincere but somehow measured, indicative of her nature as a political animal. Her reaction now was visceral. Tightly clutching the paper, she sadly sighed and said, “Poor Cookie.”
After a minute, she set the drawing beside the others on the ta
ble, but slightly away from the other three. “This representation is correct. This is how we found her body. That’s what he did to her. Still, whoever drew this could have based it upon news reports. A lot of information about Cookie’s murder inadvertently got out. I had just started with the Colina Vista P.D. Our police department was not prepared to deal with a crime of that magnitude. The perimeter had not been adequately secured. Frankly, we messed up. A reporter was able to sneak onto the crime scene. We eliminated his photos, but he published a detailed description of what he’d seen.
“Detective, I understand your passion to get to the bottom of these crimes, to find a pattern that will lead you to your man, but Cookie doesn’t fit the mold of these three others. She was certainly not a hero. She’d only been on the force for a year and a half. She’d just started patrolling solo. She’d never been in the news. I was very fond of her. I mentored her, but frankly, she was a challenge. I can’t tell you the number of talks I had with her, trying to get her to straighten up and fly right. She’d promise to do better. We’d both end up laughing. Cookie could turn any situation around and make you laugh. She was wonderful with the public and was popular with the citizens. After I’d have one of my chats with her, she’d toe the line for a while, but she had a rebellious streak that was hard to tame. I was hopeful, though. Right up until the day they found her body.”
Gilroy rose and walked to the large corner windows and looked out, her back to Kissick.
When she turned, he was surprised to see tears in her eyes.
Walking to her desk, she opened a drawer and took out a box of tissues. Grabbing a few, she tossed the box on her desk and blotted her eyes.
“Forgive me, Detective. I’m usually the one who makes people cry in this office, not the other way around.”
She again moved to look out the window. “This brings back painful memories. You see, I took Cookie under my wing because she reminded me of myself at that age. Brash, with a head full of steam and a mouth to match. If I hadn’t had a mentor at the Pasadena P.D., I’m sure I would have been bounced off the force. He saw my potential to be a good cop. I saw that with Cookie. I have two grown sons and four grandchildren. In many ways, she was like the daughter I never had.
