by Steve Gannon
“Yes, sir.” The young officer made his way over, referring to his notebook. “DMV has two vehicles registered to Charles Larson. A Jeep and an Infiniti.” He read the license numbers, noting that one of the neighbors had described the missing Infiniti as a persimmon-colored, four-door sedan.
“Persimmon? Is that red?”
“More like rust.”
“Rust, huh? Same as mine.”
Morrison eyed my battered Suburban. “Yes, sir,” he agreed.
“Any results on the neighborhood canvass?”
“Nobody’s back yet, but I’ll check.”
“Let me know right away if anything turns up. Meantime, I want an APB on the missing car. Do it now.”
“Yes, sir. By the way, when I saw the news van show up, I had somebody at the station start checking for next of kin. They located Mrs. Larson’s brother. He’s contacting the rest of the family. We advised him to tell everyone not to come down here yet.”
“Good work, kid,” I said, liking that he had shown initiative and deciding to make sure his sergeant heard about it.
On my way back to the house, I noticed a neighborhood dog inside the garage, licking the concrete floor beside the Jeep. “Hey!” I yelled at the Australian shepherd mix.
The dog glanced up, took another guilty lap with his tongue, and trotted out the open door. Curious, I reentered the garage and inspected the spot the dog had been licking. A faint green stain marked the concrete near the oil drips I had noted earlier. Radiator coolant, I thought, recognizing the fluorescent color and remembering that the yellowish-green fluid tasted sweet, resulting in numerous dog poisonings each year. Deciding to close the garage to prevent further intrusion, I again used my pen to push the garage-door button. After waiting for the motor to cycle and reconnect the manual release I’d disengaged, I tripped the button anew. The garage went dark as the door thumped shut. Stepping into the house through the laundry room door, I noted absently that the service light on the door-opener was out.
I found Tremmel in the laundry room kneeling beside the bunny cage. “Rabbit people, eh?” the criminalist said, glancing up as I entered.
“Huh?”
“Rabbit people. My sister-in-law’s one. There’s a whole community of them. Pedigree bunnies, breeders, rabbit shows. My sister lets her lop roam around the house. Damn thing uses a litter box, just like a cat.”
“I found this one thumpin’ around the living room,” I said. “Nearly had to change my skivvies after that little encounter.”
Tremmel smiled. “Killer bunny attacks cop?”
“Something like that,” I admitted sheepishly. “Anytime you’re ready, Frank.”
Tremmel rose to his feet. “Okay,” he sighed. “Let’s do it.”
I spent the next several hours supervising the crime team-making decisions concerning which parts of the house to examine, what material to gather, and what avenues of investigation might prove fruitful. During this time I also gathered a number of the victims’ personal items: phone records from the kitchen alcove, a small vial of white powder and a packet of letters from the master bedroom dresser, and an address book, letters, and bills from a desk in the den. These would be booked into evidence as soon as I obtained a computer generated “DR” number, then later returned-with the exception of the vial, if it turned out to be cocaine-to the estate once the case was closed.
Given the situation, I realized that my first line of inquiry would be based on the premise that the killer knew his victims, at least to some extent. I also realized that no matter how thorough my search, all forensic evidence now being gathered would probably prove useless until we had a suspect. Aside from a close scrutiny of friends and family, the most likely way to obtain said suspect was through an informant or via a confession that could be corroborated with physical evidence. My instinct told me neither would be forthcoming.
Art Walters, the coroner’s investigator, arrived at a little after noon. A man and woman from the sexual-assault unit accompanied him. After a brief consultation, I led the new group to the master bedroom. By then the SID team had finished, and the room displayed a patina of ferric oxide on any object the killer might have touched, along with numbered stickers designating the locations of fluid and fiber samples taken throughout the area.
Normally an ample repository of gallows humor, even Walters fell silent as he inspected the bodies. Both assault-unit officers stood to one side, awaiting their turn. Five minutes into it I noticed the male member of the assault team turning green. “Why don’t you and your partner go grab some air?” I suggested. “We’ll call when we’re ready. No sense making you guys wait around.”
“Thanks.” The man smiled weakly and headed for the stairs. The woman stayed, shooting me a look that said if I could take it, so could she.
For the next hour I remained at Walter’s side as the bodies were uncovered, examined, and turned. The man’s hands and feet were found bound with plastic ties. Additional teeth marks became visible on the woman’s shoulders and buttocks. Saliva swabs were taken, blood and fibers gathered and labeled, wounds counted and recorded. Throughout each exam, the photo technician took shots from various angles.
At one point Walters noted the fingernail cuts on Susan Larson’s palms. “Son of a bitch probably did most of this while she was still alive.”
“That’s how I figured it,” I said.
“Think it’s the same psycho who killed that family in Mission Viejo?”
“That’s the second time someone’s asked me that.”
“And?”
“I didn’t hear much about it.”
“Damn, Kane, don’t you read the papers?”
“Just the sports page.”
“Hmmm. Had you figured for the funnies.” Walters glanced around the room. “Same m.o.-bites, knife wounds, candles. They didn’t mention the eyelids on the news, though.”
“If it’s the same guy, Orange County probably held back that detail.”
“Yeah.”
Falling silent once more, Walters pulled a PERK-physical evidence recovery kit-from his briefcase and proceeded to take scrapings and fingernail clippings from Susan Larson’s left hand. After marking the evidence, he slipped a paper sack over her hand and taped the bag shut. Following the same procedure, he did the other hand, then those of the husband and child. Next he moved on to the hair-sample section of the kit, using tweezers to pluck comparison hairs from different areas of each victim’s head, arms, legs, and pubis.
When Walters was finished with the woman, the assault team moved in, procuring pubic combings and oral, vaginal, and anal swabs. At my direction they gathered similar materials from the husband and son.
Two hours after arriving, Walters removed his gloves and signaled he was finished. Attendants from the morgue had arrived and were waiting on the street. I thought carefully, ensuring I hadn’t forgotten anything. I made a mental note to have the SID unit take the bed sheets once the bodies had been removed. I also reminded Walters that I wanted comparison fingerprints rolled on each victim, as well as impressions taken of the bite lesions. He assured me it would be done.
Afterward I stood at a window in the upper hallway, gazing out at the foggy street below. Three more TV newswagons had arrived, along with the usual assortment of newspaper reporters. I watched as the remains of Charles, Susan, and Spencer Larson-wrapped in clean white sheets and strapped to gurneys-were wheeled across the asphalt. After a long moment, I headed downstairs.
Time to talk to the media.
4
Later that evening I pulled into an underground parking garage beneath the Los Angeles Music Center. I handed the attendant a twenty, receiving a parking stub and a disappointing handful of change in return. Flipping the stub onto the dashboard, I turned down a maze of ramps, tires squealing on the slick concrete. Four levels down I pulled into an empty slot and shut off the engine.
After leaving the Pacific Palisades crime scene, I had made a quick stop at Arnie’s to sh
ower and change, then driven to the West Los Angeles police station. Working through the remainder of the afternoon, I had filled out death reports on the Larson family, completed preliminary entries in the crime report, and updated my notes. As much as I like my job, I hate doing paperwork, but it’s a necessary aspect of any police investigation, and over the years I’ve found that putting it off just makes things worse.
Now, as I climbed from the Suburban, I made a determined effort to push earlier events of the day from my mind. Nevertheless, the sobering thought kept recurring that, in all my years on the force, the savagery of the Larson family’s murder was something I had never before encountered. I’ve seen a lot of terrible things people can do to one other, but what happened to the Larsons was cruel beyond measure. At this point, except for the obvious, I didn’t have a feel for what had happened in that house. Despite my attempts at compartmentalization, I also realized from past experience that I would keep gnawing on pieces of the puzzle until I did. Two things I already knew: I wanted to find the monster who’d done it. And whoever he was, he didn’t deserve to be breathing the same air as the rest of us.
Minutes later, an escalator deposited me on a broad terrace above the street. There are many ugly places in Los Angeles, but there are plenty of beautiful places too, and this was one of them. Taking long strides, I headed toward the south end of the concourse, stopping briefly to admire a large fountain fronting the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. The sun had set, and interior lights now illuminated the fountain’s cross-shaped geysers. The jets sprang directly from the stone surface of the plaza, rose to varying heights, and crashed down with a sibilant hiss reminiscent of applause-falling through hidden cracks in the pavers and disappearing like water into a sponge. In the center of the fountain stood a gigantic bronze statue entitled “Peace on Earth.” To me, the sculpture resembled an oddly shaped egg (the world?), supported from below by a twisted mass of humanity, from above in loops and furls of ribbon held aloft by a dove in flight. An impressive centerpiece, but in my opinion the fountain stole the show: now twelve feet high, now three, now eight, now dying away to nothing-startling the observer with hissing claps and abrupt, unexpected silences.
I watched the water’s undulating dance for several seconds, then headed down a stone stairway to the street below, making my way to a door marked “Artists’ Entrance.” A guard at a desk inside looked up as I entered. I badged my way past, pausing briefly to sign the register. Having been there before, I proceeded without asking directions, passing through a wide pair of doors into the performers’ lounge beyond. From the floor above came the sound of the orchestra, stopping and starting in short, teasing bursts.
Although the LA Philharmonic had been a resident company at the Walt Disney Concert Hall since the new venue’s addition to the Music Center in 2003, because of a heavy performance schedule at the Disney Hall, the Philharmonic players were conducting several of their final tour rehearsals at their former home in the adjacent Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. Heading toward the music, I ascended a metal stairway, exiting behind the Dorothy Chandler stage. An acoustic shell, its hardwood walls rising to meet the proscenium arch in front, enclosed the entire performing area. I peered through a small window set in the stage-right door, spotting Catheryn over the ranks of the first violins. On her left, at the head of the cello section, sat Arthur West.
A handsome, distinguished-looking man with a magnificent mane of prematurely graying hair, Arthur West had held the title of principal cellist for the Los Angeles Philharmonic for the past ten years. Catheryn knew him through her longstanding association with the USC School of Music, and his encouragement had been pivotal in her joining the Philharmonic-resuming a musical career that she’d put on hold to have Tommy, our first child. Later, following the births of Travis, Allison, and Nate, the postponement of her career-with the exception of playing in a string quartet on Wednesdays and supplementing our family income by tutoring private students-had turned out to be permanent. Three summers ago things had changed.
After a competitive audition, Catheryn had been selected to substitute for a young cellist taking a thirteen-week maternity leave. Thrilled, Catheryn had accepted the temporary assignment, and the following January when the associate principal cellist had retired, Catheryn auditioned for the position. To her amazement, but to the surprise of no one who had heard her play, she was offered the appointment.
It was a big step, and she brought me in on the decision. We discussed it rationally. With the exception of Nate, the children were nearly grown. Travis would be leaving soon for college, and Allison could occasionally take care of her younger brother. Catheryn would still be able to keep most of her private students, teaching on mornings she didn’t have rehearsals. We could use the extra income. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. And so on. I subjugated any objections I had to Catheryn’s taking on full-time employment, wanting her to have this chance. Even if I had known the problems that would eventually ensue, I still wouldn’t have said no.
As I watched Catheryn now through the glass, I noticed Arthur smiling at her as she turned the sheets on their music stand. Catheryn smiled back, her coppery-green eyes shining with pleasure. With an irrational surge of irritation, I turned and stepped through a small door in the stage wing, exited the backstage area, and headed into the deserted auditorium beyond.
Moving quietly, I entered the Dorothy Chandler’s lavish, wood-paneled hall. The stage spots, cleverly concealed in the ceiling and sweeping curves of the balcony levels, were dark, as were the wall-mounted crystal chandeliers and the rest of the house lights. The only illumination came from a bank of utility overheads above the stage. Ignoring the Philharmonic’s rule forbidding the presence of family and friends during rehearsals, I slumped into a seat in the orchestra section, just within the glow of the stage. A number of players noted my entrance, including Catheryn. She shot me a quick, uncertain smile, then returned her concentration to the music. Noticing her glance, Arthur stared into the darkened auditorium, giving me a perfunctory nod. With renewed irritation, I watched Arthur’s bow moving in unison with Catheryn’s. As much as I was proud of Catheryn’s musical accomplishments, I was unable to ignore the extent to which I had progressively become excluded from a significant part of her life.
For the next fifteen minutes I let my mind drift with the ebb and flow of the music. Toward the end, as the orchestra honed passages from a work I recognized from listening to Catheryn’s practice at home as the Dvorak Cello Concerto, Arthur embarked on a short virtuosic excursion. Catheryn, her brow furrowed in concentration, led the rest of the cello section in response. I watched as she played, instrument held loosely between her knees, her skirt falling in graceful folds over her long legs-revealing a glimpse of calf and ankle, a slender foot bound in a white leather sandal. As her left hand ascended the neck of her cello, she raised her chin, exposing a delicate curve of throat and the clean line of her jaw, a jaw I had seen set in stubborn determination more times than I liked to recall. Her body was lean and athletic, her limbs lightly tanned from time spent outdoors, despite her efforts to stay out of the sun. But as I watched her play, I realized, as always, that it was her hands that drew me.
I remembered the day we first met. She had been a sophomore attending the USC School of Music; I was a senior. I had been playing out the last year of a football scholarship, cruising the smoothest academic back roads I could find and wondering what to do after graduation. I first saw her in the library. Later that evening, taken by her appearance and the unapologetic way she returned my gaze across the library tables, I waited outside to talk with her. Our initial encounter proved disastrous. And with good reason, friends pointed out. Catheryn sipped wine, I guzzled beer; Catheryn loved classical music, I listened to country tunes at a volume that could cause hearing impairment. Catheryn planned a concert career followed in some indeterminate future by a romantic, white lace wedding. I wanted a wife who would cook, clean, and bear me a houseful of kids. But despite h
er steadfast refusals to go out with me, I shamelessly persisted-showing up unexpectedly to walk her to class, attending every student recital in which she performed.
In a rarely visited portion of my mind that governed my personal life, I realized that although Catheryn’s beauty had initially attracted me, it was her hands that had snared me, refusing to let me go. Fascinated, I watched now as they brought forth the voice of her cello, a sound achingly deep, a sound I had come to associate with my wife’s world of music-a world for me at times as mysterious and unfathomable as she. Nimble, long-fingered, and strong, her hands embodied their owner’s intelligence and talent, seeming almost magical in their agility. Yet they also displayed a grace and expressivity that was as enigmatic to me as the music they produced, but a quality I had found mesmerizing from the first moment I watched her play. It’s often said that the eyes are the window to one’s soul. With Catheryn, for me, it was her hands as well.
Minutes later, after repeating several of the more difficult sections, the orchestra abandoned the Dvorak to practice portions of another of the tour selections. Then at last, as the personnel manager stepped onstage to remind the conductor of the time, the rehearsal ended.
After the conductor left the stage, the musicians, individually and in groups of twos and threes, started drifting out. I walked to the edge of the raised platform. Noting my arrival, Catheryn broke off a conversation with Arthur. “Hi, Dan,” she said. “What brings you down here? I thought you were working today.”
“Finished early,” I answered. Unless pressed, I rarely discussed details of my job with Catheryn, and by tacit agreement, she rarely asked. Sensing her initial reaction of welcome being replaced by an air of guarded reserve, I placed a hand on the edge of the stage and vaulted up, once again ignoring orchestra rules.
Arthur gave me a look of condescension. “Detective. Left the city safe and sound, I trust?”
