Billy Straight: A Novel (Petra Connor)

by Jonathan Kellerman

  None of the usual small talk. Kathy usually liked to chat. Something different with both of them—a marital thing? No, couldn’t be, the Bishops were poster children for marital solidity, don’t disillusion me, Lord.

  Stu came on. “Just got off the phone with Schoelkopf. Quote: ‘We don’t want another f-ing O.J. My office, eight A.M.’ ”

  “Something to wake up for.”

  “Yeah. How’d the notification go?”

  “Spoke to the father. He hates Ramsey’s guts, is positive Ramsey did it.”

  “He back that up with anything?”

  “The beating. And he says Lisa was scared of Ramsey.”

  “Scared of what?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Aha . . . okay, eight A.M.”

  “What do you think about the broadcast?”

  Silence. “I guess it could help us. Make Ramsey a de facto suspect and get the brass worried about looking stupid if we don’t press him a little.”

  “Good point,” she said.

  Silence.

  “Okay, I won’t keep you—just one more thing: Dr. Boehlinger runs an ER, probably a take-charge kind of guy. I’m sure he and his wife will be coming out ASAP. He hates Ramsey. What if he decides to get proactive?”

  “Hmm,” he said, as if it were mildly interesting. Same way he’d reacted to the library book. Was she off her game? “Share it with the captain. He’s such a sharing person.”

  Tuesday, 7:57 A.M.

  Edmund Schoelkopf looked more Latin than Teutonic. A short, trim man in his early fifties, he had moist black eyes, thick, artificial-looking black hair combed back from a flat, shallow forehead, and delicate lips. His skin was the color of All-Bran. He wore knockoffs of Armani double-breasteds and aggressive ties; looked like a former cop who’d gone on to corporate security. But he’d spent every moment of his work life in LAPD and would probably never leave till mandatory retirement.

  His office was unimpressive, the usual mix of city-issue and community donations. He let Stu and Petra right in.

  “Coffee?” His bass voice was morning-thick, barely into the human register. On the walls behind him were the usual graphs and pin charts—tides of crime that could be surfed but never tamed.

  The coffee smelled burnt. They were supposed to refuse it, and they did. Schoelkopf pushed back his desk chair and crossed his legs, tugging up knife-crease slacks.

  “Tell me,” he said, the basso corseted now.

  Stu caught him up on the visit to Ramsey’s house, and Petra summed up her talk with Patsy K., the search of the apartment and the door-to-door, the notification of Dr. Boehlinger. Presented that way, it sounded as if she’d done a lot more work than Stu. She had. He didn’t seem to care; kept looking around. Schoelkopf seemed distracted, too, even when Petra talked about the discovery of Lisa’s dope.

  “The father blames it on Ramsey, sir,” she said. “He really hates Ramsey’s guts.”

  “Wouldn’t you? So . . . you’ll follow up with that black guy at the studio—Darrell.”

  “Right away. What if Dr. Boehlinger tries to get involved?”

  Schoelkopf’s black eyes fixed on the center of her forehead. “We’ll deal with that if and when it occurs. Let’s concentrate on getting some data. I know the lab’s got all the stuff, but is there anything even remotely resembling physical evidence yet?”

  Petra was about to shake her head when Stu said, “Petra found something interesting. A library book, hundred feet or so above the body. And there are some other indications someone could have been up there recently. There’s a rock formation—”

  “I’ve seen the crime-scene photos,” said Schoelkopf. “What other indications?”

  Petra’s hands had tightened. She tried to catch Stu’s eye, but he focused on the captain. Something interesting?

  Schoelkopf said, “Tell me about the other indications, Barbie.”

  “Food wrappers,” she said. “Like from a fast-food joint. Specks of ground beef, maybe tacos. And urine on one of the rocks—”

  Schoelkopf said, “Someone eating and peeing and reading? What kind of library book?”

  “Presidents of the United States.”

  That seemed to annoy him. “Checked out recently?”

  “No, sir. Nine months ago.”

  “Oh, c’mon—that sounds like bullshit.” He tossed coffee down his throat. The mug was steaming. It had to hurt. “What makes you think this person was up there recently?”

  “The meat wasn’t dried out, sir.”

  “A speck of meat?”

  “A few specks. Ground beef.”

  “How long does it take for ground beef to dry out?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “I don’t either, but I’ll bet it varies, depending on how much fat in the meat, temperature, humidity, who knows whatever the fuck else. What about the urine?”

  “The crime techs thought it was—”

  “It’s a park,” said Schoelkopf. “People come up there to eat and relax, maybe they take a leak when no one’s watching—there are picnic tables not far from there, right?”

  “Yes, but not right there, sir. These rocks—”

  “Sometimes people don’t bother going to the john—is there a john nearby?”

  “Just past the picnic tables.”

  “People are lazy—okay, I can see you liking the food and the pee, but the book tells me you’re barking up the wrong tree. Because it was dark, Barbie. Why the hell would anyone be out there reading in the dark?”

  “The person could have arrived earlier, stayed till after dark—”

  “What, some intellectual with an interest in political science is reading about the presidents—God knows why, they’re all scumbags—eats, takes a leak, and lays his head down on a rock and falls asleep and just happens to wake up to see the girl get sliced? Fine, so where is he, your witness?”

  “We’re not saying the book was even related to the food,” she said. “It was found a ways up from the—”

  “Hey,” said Schoelkopf, “you want a gift from Santa Claus, fine. But for all we know it was Ramsey behind those rocks munching a burger and taking a leak—sitting in wait for her. She shows up, he jumps her.”

  “The way she was dressed, sir, she seemed to be out on a date.”

  “With who?”

  “Maybe Ramsey. His everyday car, a Mercedes, was gone when we visited his house. If we’re allowed to ask questions, maybe we can find out where it is.”

  Schoelkopf shot forward in his chair. “You don’t think you’re being allowed?”

  Petra didn’t answer.

  Stu said, “We have been told to be careful.”

  “And what the fuck’s wrong with that? Ever hear of Orenthal James Asshole? Remember what happens when people aren’t careful?”

  Silence.

  Schoelkopf drank more coffee but remained slanted forward. “You’ll proceed appropriately once the evidentiary basis has been established. Let’s get back to your scenario, assume she was having some kind of date that ended in a meeting at the park. Ramsey, dope, or she’s trysting with some married guy. Or cruising some fucking whips-and-chains club, who the hell knows. And let’s say your potential witness was behind the rock. What kind of witness bunks out in the park at night and pees on rocks? Sees a brutal murder and doesn’t call us. That sound like Joe Citizen?”

  Petra said, “Maybe a homeless person—”

  “Exactly,” said Schoelkopf. “A lowlife, a mental case. No sane person—no legit person—would be out at night alone in Griffith Park. Meaning, we’ve got a bum or a wacko or even the bad guy himself. Hell, I’ll go for a scumbag who reads about the presidents, but till you get me a lead, I’m not gonna authorize any media release for the info, because we are not going to look like idiots on this one.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to, sir,” said Petra.

  Schoelkopf stroked his upper lip. Had he ever worn a mustache? “Okay, so what you’re telling me
is we’ve got fuck-nothing. Run forensics on all of it—food, book, pee—but don’t get sidetracked, because it’s weak. And find the vic’s goddamn car. Meanwhile, here’s what I did for you in the real world: made sure the coroner assigned a competent pathologist and not one of those slicer-dicers. I asked Romanescu to personally supervise the post, and he agreed, but who the hell trusts him—he used to work for the Communists. Same for the crime techs: I’ve asked Yamada to oversee, we don’t want mumblebums screwing everything up, another fucking travesty like you-know-who, and you better believe the media would love to turn it into one. They should have some prelims soon; keep in touch. What I’m saying is: Every bit of fiber and juice gets microanalyzed up the yin. Don’t tell me ninety-nine percent of the time forensics is useless, I know it is, but we’ve got to cover all bases. Also, there were no defense wounds on the girl’s hands, but that doesn’t mean she offered no resistance at all, so let’s pray for transfer, one damn molecule of body fluid with a story to tell.”

  He scratched a front tooth with a fingernail. “No cuts on Ramsey, huh?”

  “Nothing visible,” said Stu.

  “Well,” said Schoelkopf, “don’t count on getting the guy to take his clothes off anytime soon.” The black eyes dropped to the phone messages. “At least the race thing isn’t an issue. So far.”

  “So far, sir?”

  Picking up the empty mug, Schoelkopf looked into it, meditating. “This black guy, Darrell. Wouldn’t that be lovely? What else do we know about him?”

  “The maid said he worked with Lisa. And that he was older than her. Just like Ramsey.”

  “So she wants to fuck her dad. Write a Psych 101 essay.” Schoelkopf put the mug down, stared at both of them, then avoided their eyes. “Next item: Ramsey called me last night at ten P.M.—himself, not some lawyer. The page operator wisely decided to put him through. First he pours on the grief, says anything he can do to help. Then he tells me about the domestic-violence thing. It’s going to be on the news tonight—he wants to explain that it only happened once; he wasn’t making excuses, but it was only once. He says the true story is she pushed him and he got pissed. He said it was the stupidest thing he ever did, he felt ashamed.”

  Schoelkopf waved a finger around and around. “Et-fucking-cetera.”

  “Covering his rear,” said Stu. “He never mentioned the DV to us.”

  “He’s a star,” Petra half muttered. “Goes straight to the top.”

  Schoelkopf’s color deepened. “Yeah, the bastard’s obviously trying to finesse, calling with no legal shield. That tells me he thinks he’s smarter than he is. So if we do get some physical evidence, maybe there’ll be a way to wedge him open. Not that we’d be able to talk turkey without his getting a lawyer mouthpiece faster’n Michael Jackson gets new faces. But meanwhile we finesse, too. That’s what I meant by context: no premature hassling; no getting accused of tunnel vision.”

  Petra said, “The news broadcast—”

  “Gives you a good reason to talk to him about all sorts of things, but at the same time you need to do an exhaustive check of all similar homicides. I’m talking two years’ worth—make it three. All city divisions. Keep precise written records.”

  Petra was stunned. This was scut work—hours . . . days of it. She looked at Stu.

  He said, “How closely related are we talking about?”

  “Start with girls cut up with multiple wounds,” said Schoelkopf. “Girls killed in parks, blondes killed in parks, whatever, you’re the D’s. And make sure to check if any new slashers have been operating in noncity areas that border the park, like Burbank, Atwater. Maybe Glendale, Pasadena—yeah, definitely Glendale and Pasadena. La Canada, La Crescenta. Start with those.”

  Neither Stu nor Petra spoke.

  “Don’t give me that surly shit,” said Schoelkopf. “This is insurance for you. ‘Yes, Mr. Pusswipe Defense Attorney, we looked into every goddamn nook and cranny before we busted Mr. Ramsey’s ass.’ Think—about your faces on Court TV, old Mark Fuhrman sitting around in Idaho. Because you’re the ones on the line unless the case gets too big and we don’t produce and they kick it over to downtown Robbery-fucking-Homicide.”

  “Which they could do anyway,” said Stu.

  Schoelkopf’s grin was murderous. “Anything’s possible, Ken. That’s what makes this job so charming.” He began thumbing through the phone messages.

  “What’s the procedure with Ramsey?” said Stu. “Do we wait to look into all those similars before approaching him, or are we allowed to start now?”

  “Allowed, again? You two think this is being imposed on you?”

  “Just trying to get the rules straight.”

  Schoelkopf looked up. “The only rule is be smart. Goddamn yes, you talk to Ramsey. If you don’t, we’ll be in a sling over that. Just do the other stuff, too. That’s why God invented overtime.”

  He picked up a message slip and the phone, but Stu remained seated and Petra followed his cue.

  Stu said, “In terms of Ramsey’s background, I’ve got some sources at the studios—”

  “I can see a problem there,” said Schoelkopf, looking up. “Movie people are loose-lipped assholes. The fact that your sources blab to you means they’re not real good at keeping their mouths shut, right?”

  “That’s true of any case—”

  “This isn’t any case.”

  “What’s to stop them from talking to the press, anyway, Captain?” said Petra. “What if the tabloids start throwing around money and a real feeding frenzy develops? Do we keep bird-dogging the nightly news?”

  Schoelkopf’s top teeth gnashed his bottom lip. “Okay, pick one or two sources, Ken,” he said, as if Petra hadn’t spoken. “But know this: You will be graded. Talk to that black guy, see what he’s all about. Sooner rather than later. Have a nice day.”

  CHAPTER

  16

  My eyes are closed, and I’m thinking when I feel it. Ants are crawling over me; they probably smelled the Honey Nuts. I jump to my feet and slap them off, stomp as many as I can. Someone watching me would think I’m crazy.

  After what I saw, I don’t feel great even being in the park, but what’s my choice? For a second I imagine him finding me, chasing me, cornering me. He’s got the knife, the same one, grabs me and stabs down. My heart jumps up to meet the blade.

  Why would I think that?

  It’s 11:34 A.M., have to take my mind off it. I open the algebra book, do equations in my head. I’ll try to eat—maybe a piece of beef jerky—and at 1:00 P.M., I’ll go down to that place along the fence, see if the lock’s still off.

  Made it. Super-quiet up in Africa. Five dollars in my pocket; the rest of my money’s wrapped up and buried.

  Hot—summer’s coming early. Lots of sleepy animals, most of them hiding in their caves. Not a lot of people—some tourists, mostly Japanese, and young moms with babies in strollers. I’ve got a notebook with me and a pencil, to make it look like some kind of school assignment. My smell isn’t too bad out in the open. No one’s looking at me weird, and someone actually smiled—a couple of tourists—a man and a woman, Americans, old, kind of geeky, with lots of cameras and this zoo map they can’t seem to figure out. I probably remind them of their grandson or something.

  I keep going to the top of Africa. Most of the animals are sleeping, but I don’t care, it feels good to walk without having to. One rhino is out, but she just gives me a dirty look, so I head for the gorillas.

  When I get there, it’s a scene.

  Two of the young moms are there, freaking out; one of them’s brushing off her blouse and screaming, “Oh God, gross!” and the other’s wheeling her stroller backward fast. Then they both race away toward North America.

  I see why right away.

  Shit. All over the ground near the fence that blocks off the gorilla exhibit.

  Five gorillas are out, four sitting around and scratching and sleeping and one standing the way they do, bent over with his hands almost
reaching the ground. A girl. The males have humongous heads and a silver stripe down their backs.

  She starts walking around, stops to check out the other gorillas, scratches, walks some more. Then she bends and picks up a giant piece of shit.

  And throws it.

  It misses my head, and lands on the ground right next to me, exploding into nasty-smelling dust. Some of it gets on my shoes. I try to kick it loose and another chunk flies by me. And another.

  “You idiot!” I hear myself scream. No one’s around.

  The gorilla folds her arms across her chest and just looks at me and I swear she’s smiling, like this is some terrific gorilla joke.

  Then she points at me. Then she picks up another hunk.

  I get out of there. The whole world has gotten crazy.

  I buy a lemonade from a vending machine and walk around drinking, hoping all the shit dust comes off, because I’m really tired of gross things.

  Maybe I’ll visit the reptile house; it’s cool and shaded and seeing another two-headed king snake would be cool.

  On the way in, I meet those same two grandparent tourists coming out and they smile again, still looking confused. I cruise by the boas and the anaconda, adders and lizards, rattlesnakes, vipers, and cobras. Spend some time looking at an albino python, huge and fat, with pink-white scales and weird red eyes.

  Will its ugly pale face get into my dreams tonight?

  That wouldn’t be bad if I could get it to eat PLYR 1.

  I stand there thinking of myself as the Snakemaster, communicating with reptiles through mental power. Calling the albino python to wrap itself around PLYR 1, crushing him, squeezing him like a juice orange.

  Knowing what’s happening to him. That’s worse than just dying. Knowing.

  A little while later, near the edge of the zoo, next to a playground that I guess they keep for little kids who get bored with the animals, is a vegetable patch with a rope around it.

  Corn and beans and tomatoes and peppers. The sign says it’s for the animals, so they’ll have fresh food. I’ve seen chimps eating corn, so gorillas probably do, too, and that gets me thinking.