"Detective Rawlings," Alan says.
Jenny stops still. Looks at Alan. "Rawlings? Are you sure about that?"
"Yeah, I'm sure. Why?"
She shakes her head. "Because things may really be looking up for you now. Rawlings is a first-class fuckup. Always has been, from what I hear. He's boozing it up, counting time till retirement."
"And how is that good for us?" I ask.
"It makes it a lot more probable that he missed something back then. Something you guys wouldn't miss."
At SFPD, Jenny taps a pencil on the desk while waiting for the phone to be answered. "Rawlings? This is Jenny Chang. Yeah, I do know what time it is." She frowns. "It's not my fault you're a drunk."
I give her a pleading look. I need the guy to come in, not hang up on her. She closes her eyes. I get the idea she's counting to ten.
"Look, Don. I'm sorry. I got woken up out of bed too. Made me cranky. The head of NCAVC Coord LA is here, about an old case of yours. A"--she consults a pad in front of her--"Renee Parker." A look of surprise crosses her face. "Sure. Okay. See you in a few." She hangs up the phone, musing.
"What?" I ask.
"The moment I said her name, he stopped complaining and said he'd be here right away."
"I guess this one meant something to him."
Don Rawlings shows up within the half hour. I can tell just by looking at him that Jenny was right on target. He's about five foot nine, with a large gut, rheumy eyes, and the florid face of a dedicated drinker. He looks aged before his time.
I stand up and shake his hand. "Thank you for coming, Detective Rawlings. I'm Special Agent Smoky Barrett, head of NCAVC Coord in Los Angeles. That's James Giron and Alan Washington, who also work in my unit."
He squints at my face. "I know you. You're the one whose home got broken into." He grimaces. "Every cop's nightmare."
I notice he's holding a folder in his hand. "What's that?" I ask. He plops it down on the desk as he takes a seat. "That's a copy of the file on Renee Parker. I've kept it all these years. Pick it up in the early hours sometimes when I can't sleep."
Rawlings's face undergoes a change when he speaks about Renee Parker. The eyes become more alert. His mouth grows sad. I was right. This case had meant something to him.
"Tell me about it, Detective."
His eyes go distant. Empty, with no horizons. "Takes a little bit of backstory, Agent Barrett. Detective Chang here probably told you I'm an alcoholic fuckup. And she's right. But I wasn't always that way. Once upon a time, I was where she is now. The best homicide guy here. First grade." He looks at Jenny, smiles. "Didn't know that, did you?"
Jenny raises an eyebrow. "I had no idea."
"Yeah. Don't get me wrong, now. When I started on the force I was young, and I was a real prick. A racist, a homophobe, with a hair-trigger temper. I used my fists on more than one occasion where it might not have been needed. But the streets have a way of teaching you the way things really are.
"I stopped being a racist the day a black cop saved my life. Perp came up behind me. This cop tackled me out of the way and shot the perp down at the same time. We were fast friends for years, till he died. Killed in the line of duty."
Those sad eyes grow even emptier and more distant.
"I stopped being a homophobe after a year in homicide. Death does that to you. Tends to give you a perspective on things. There was a young man who was--well, flamboyant about his homosexuality. He worked a roach coach near the station, and he picked up on my hate real fast. Little fucker would tease me, do all kinds of things just to make me uncomfortable."
A faint smile ghosts across his lips. Disappears, torpedoed by sadness.
"God, he made me crazy. Well, one day a group of guys beat that young man to death because he was a homosexual. And wouldn't you know it, I caught the case." He gives me a sardonic grin. "How's that for karma? During that case I got to see two things, and I was never a gay hater again. I got to see his mother scream and pull her hair out and just die inside right in front of me. I watched her world end because her boy was dead. Then I went to his funeral, looking for suspects. You know what I saw there? About two hundred people. You believe that? I don't think I even know two hundred people. Not who would come to my funeral, that's for sure." He shakes his head in disbelief. "And they weren't just people from the community, there because he was gay. They were people whose lives he'd touched. Turns out he volunteered all over the place. Hospices, drug-rehab centers, crisis counseling. That young man was a saint. He was good. And the only reason he was dead was because he was gay." He clenches a fist. "That was wrong. I just couldn't be a part of it. Not anymore."
He waves a hand. "Anyway. So . . . yeah. Here I was, new to the homicide bureau, and a new man. No longer thinking words like faggot or nig- ger. I was different, I was dedicated, life was good.
"Now jump forward five years. I was about three years past my peak and sliding down the other side fast. I'd started to drink; I was fucking around on my wife. I thought a lot about eating my gun. All because of those damn dead babies." His eyes grow haunted, haunted in a way I recognized. I'd seen that same look in the mirror. "Someone was killing babies. I'm talking toddlers or younger. Snatching them, strangling them, and tossing them out on the sidewalks or the streets. All it took was six of them and no suspects, and I was dying inside." He peers at me. "You know that feeling, I'll bet, doing what you do."
I nod.
"Imagine that it's six dead babies you're letting down. That you not only haven't caught the guy doing it, you don't even have any suspects. I was fucked."
Just a year ago, I'd have looked at Don Rawlings and would have to have suppressed a sneer. I would have considered him weak. Someone blaming the past for the present, using it as an excuse. I can't forgive him entirely for giving up, but I don't feel that need to sneer at this moment. Sometimes the weight of this job is just too much. What I feel now is not superiority but compassion.
"I can imagine," I say, looking at him. I think he sees that I mean it, and he continues his tale.
"I was already fucking up and not caring about it. I did anything I could to try and get those dead babies off my mind. Drinking, sex--anything. But they'd keep showing up in my dreams. Then I met Renee Parker."
A genuine smile, one belonging to a younger Don Rawlings, appears. "I ran into her when her boyfriend got killed. He was a small-time dealer, pissed off the wrong guy. She was a stripper who'd only just started shooting up. You see it all the time and learn to write it off real fast. But there was something different about Renee. There was someone home. Some life in there, right near the surface." He looks up. "I know what you're thinking. Cop, stripper, end of story. But it wasn't like that. Sure, she had a great body. But I didn't think of her like that. I saw her, and I thought maybe this was my chance to do something good. To make up for the babies.
"I got her story. Went to LA to act, ended up dancing topless to make ends meet. Met a scumbag, he said, 'Hey, try a little bit of this, you won't get hooked.' Nothing original there. But there was something original with her. This kind of desperation in her eyes. Like she was still hanging on to the edge of the cliff and hadn't fallen off it yet.
"I grabbed her and I slammed her into rehab. When I was off duty, I'd go see her. Hold her while she was puking. Talk to her. Encourage her. Sometimes we'd talk all night. And you know what? She was my first female friend." He looks at me. "You know what I mean? Think male-chauvinist stereotype. Women are for marrying or fucking. You understand?"
"I've known a few in my time," I say.
"Well, that was me. But this twenty-year-old girl, she became a friend. I didn't think about fucking her, and I didn't want to marry her. I just wanted her to be okay. That's all I wanted." He bites his lip. "You see, I was a good detective. I was never on the take; I usually caught the bad guy. I never hit a woman. I had rules, right and wrong. But I was never really a decent man. You understand the difference?"
"Sure."
; "But what I was doing with Renee, it was decent. Selfless." He runs a hand through his hair. "She came through it and got out of rehab. I mean, really came through it. One of the ones who was going to make it. I lent her some money and she got her own apartment. She started working a job. A few months later, she even started night school. Taking drama classes. Said if she never made it as an actress, she could always be a waitress, but she wasn't ready to give up on her dream yet.
"We'd hang out every now and then. Go to a movie. Always as friends. I never wanted anything else. It was the first time it was more important to me to have a friend than a piece of ass. Best of all, the babies went away. I stopped drinking, made up with the wife."
He falls silent, and I know what's coming, can hear it like a phantom freight train. I already know the end to this story. Renee Parker, firecracker, saved from herself, gets murdered in a hideous fashion. What I didn't know until now is what that meant to the people around her. For Don Rawlings, it was a point where fate turned on a dime and began hurtling into the black. The point where the dead babies came back and never left.
"I got the call at four in the morning. Didn't know who it was until I got out there." His eyes look like ghosts in the fog. Lost and howling and doomed to wander. "He'd burned her good. The ME said she had almost five hundred separate cigarette burns on her. Five hundred!
None of them fatal." His hand trembles on the desk. "He'd tortured her and raped her. But the worst was what he did after. Cut her open, took out some of her organs, and dropped them next to her body. Just dropped them there on the concrete, to rot with her.
"It's hard to remember that feeling. How I felt when I saw her there. Maybe I just don't want to. What I do remember is one of the uniforms looking down at her and saying, 'Oh yeah, I know her. Stripper, used to work over in the Tenderloin. Great tits.' That was it for him, all the explanation he needed. He looked down at Renee, remembered her tits, and labeled her. Not a human being, or a bright girl who was turning her life around. Just a stripper." He traces a finger over an imperfection in the desk. "They had to pull me off him. Not that it mattered. Can you believe this--that little bastard went in and pulled the file, years later. Under profession, he whited out waitress and wrote in stripper/poss. prostitute. Even sent it in as a correction to VICAP."
I'm appalled. I suppose it shows on my face, because he looks at me and nods.
"Believe it." He sighs. "So anyway, I kept my past relationship with her quiet so I could stay as the primary on the case. I wanted to catch this guy. Had to catch him. But he was good. No prints, not a damn thing. We didn't have DNA back then, so"--he shrugs--"I went looking where you always do when you come up dry on the physical evidence."
"Who knew her, who'd been around her," I say.
"That's right. She was going to night school. Turns out she'd met a guy there. Been seeing him for a week or two. Good-looking kid named Peter Connolly. But right off, I knew something wasn't right with him. Something about the way he talked when I questioned him, like he was making fun of me. Getting away with something. On a hunch, I flashed his photo around at the strip joint she used to work at. Sure enough, people remembered him. The times they placed him there matched what Renee's schedule had been. Then it got better. Turns out Peter had a little drug problem. He'd attended rehab. Can you guess? At the same place and at the same time that Renee had been cleaning up. Now my antennae are way up. Once I found out he'd enrolled in college only a week after she had, I knew, I knew, he had to be my guy."
He falls silent and doesn't start speaking again.
"I can guess where this goes, Don," I say in a gentle voice. "No evidence, right? You couldn't connect him to the crime. Sure, he'd been at the strip club, rehab, and the college. But all of that could be explained away."
He nods. Bereft. "That's right. It was enough to get a warrant for his place, but nothing turned up. Not a damn thing. His past was clean."
He looks back up at me, and his eyes are filled with frustration. "I couldn't prove what I knew. And there weren't any more killings. No other scenes. Time went on; he moved away. I started dreaming again. Sometimes it was the babies. Most of the time it was Renee."
No one here feels superior to Don Rawlings now. We know that everyone has that point. Where they can no longer bend without breaking. He no longer seems pathetic or weak. Instead, we recognize him for what he is: a casualty.
Whoever said "time heals all wounds" wasn't a cop.
"The reason we're here," I speak into the silence, "is because VICAP
matched the MO of our unsub to your unsolved case. He has killed again." I lean forward. "After listening to you, I'm certain our killer and yours are one and the same."
He studies my face like someone does when they don't trust in hope.
"You having any better luck than I did?"
"Not in terms of physical evidence. But we did find out one thing that, combined with your suspect of twenty-five years ago, might break this case."
"What's that?"
I explain to him about Jack Jr. and the contents of the jar. Cynicism begins to fall away from his face, replaced by excitement.
"So you're saying this guy was indoctrinated in this idea of being Jack the Ripper's great-great-grandkid, or whatever, and that it started when he was young?"
"That's what I'm saying."
He leans back in his chair with a look of amazement. "Man oh man oh man . . . I never had any reason to check out his mom back then. The dad was long gone and in the wind . . ." Don has the look of someone in shock. Reeling. He gathers himself up and taps on the case folder he'd brought with him. "That info's in there. Who his mom is, where she lived at the time."
"Then that's where we're going," I say.
"Do you think . . ." He takes a deep breath, draws himself up. "I know I'm not much these days. I'm an old, drunk has-been. But if you let me go with you to see the mother, I promise I won't fuck it up."
I've never heard someone sound as humble as he does right now.
"I wouldn't have it any other way, Don," I say. "It's time for you to see this through."
53
C ONCORD IS LOCATED north of Berkeley in the Bay Area. We are headed there to see Peter Connolly's mother, a woman named Patricia. The driver's license on file says that she is sixty-four years old. We have opted to show up on her doorstep, rather than telegraph our coming or our suspicions. Mothers have sent their sons on killing sprees before. In this case, who knows?
I am in the zone. It is that place I get to near the end of a hunt, when I know, at a primal level, that we are zeroing in on our quarry. All senses heighten to an almost painful level, and I feel as if I am running full tilt across a piano wire over a chasm. Sure-footed, invincible, unafraid of falling.
I look at Don Rawlings as we drive, and I see a spark of it there as well, though perhaps mixed with more desperation. He has dared to hope again. For him the price of failure might be more than a disappointment. It could be fatal. In spite of this, he looks ten years younger. His eyes are clear and focused. You can almost see what he was like when he was still honed sharp.
We are junkies, all of us who work in this profession. We walk through blood, decay, and stench. We toss and turn with nightmares caused by horrors the mind has trouble encompassing. We take it out on ourselves, or our friends and family, or both. But then it comes toward the end, and we arrive in the zone, and it is a high like no other. It's a high that makes you forget about the stench and blood and nightmares and horrors. And once it is behind you, you are ready to do it again.
Of course, it can backfire on you. You can fail to catch a killer. The stink remains, but without the reward that cleanses it away. Even so, those of us who do this thing continue, willing to take this chance. This is a profession where you work on the edge of a precipice. It has a high suicide rate. Just like any profession where failure carries such a terrible weight of responsibility.
I think of all these things, but I don't care. For now, my
scars have no meaning. Because I am in the zone.
I have always been fascinated by books and movies about serial killers. Writers and directors so often seem dedicated to the idea that they must lay out a path of bread crumbs for their hero to follow. A logical array of deductions and clues that lead to the monster's lair in the blazing light of an aHA!
Sometimes this is true. But much of the time it's not. I remember a case that was making us crazy. He was killing children, and after three months we didn't have a clue. Not a single, solid lead. One morning I got a call from the LAPD--he had turned himself in. Case closed. With Jack Jr., we have exhausted the gamut of physical evidence and the search for the esoterics of "IP numbers." He has costumed himself, planted bugs and tracking devices, enlisted confederates, been brilliant. And in the end, the resolution of it all will probably come down to just two factors: a piece of cow flesh and a twenty-five-year-old unsolved case gathering dust in VICAP.
I have learned to need only one truth over the years, and it provides all the order I require: Caught is caught and caught is good. Period. Alan's cell phone rings. "Yeah," he says. His eyes close, and I am fearful, but they open again, and I can see his relief. "Thanks, Leo. I appreciate you calling me." He hangs up. "She's not awake yet, but they've upgraded her condition from critical to stable. Still in ICU, but the surgeon told Leo specifically that death wasn't on the table anymore, unless something really unexpected happens."
"Callie'll pull through. She's too damn stubborn," I say. James says nothing, and silence rules again. We keep driving.
"Here it is," Jenny murmurs.
The home is old and just a little shabby. The yard's uncared for but not quite dead. The whole place has the same feel: on its way out but not yet gone. We get out of the car and walk up to the door. It opens before we can knock. Patricia Connolly looks old, and tired. As tired as she looks, her eyes are awake.
With fear.
"You must be the police," she says.
"Yes, ma'am," I respond. "As well as members of the FBI." I show her my credentials and introduce myself and the others. "Can we come in, Mrs. Connolly?"
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