Bleeding Out

by Baxter Clare

  Rothman got quiet. Frank could feel him staring at her. She nodded her head at the floor and scuffed her toe against a black shoe mark.

  “You’re good,” she said softly. “You know what? If you don’t make it in IAD you’ve got a great career in pulp fiction. I’ll be first in line to buy your books. Promise.”

  “Franco, relax. You can level with us. It’s okay. We really are on your side. You can tell us how it went down and we’ll back you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Absolutely,” Rothman swore, one hand in the air.

  “You really want to know?”

  Rothman nodded sincerely.

  “Alright. I’ll tell you.”

  Frank patiently recounted the exact story she’d already told them half a dozen times. They interjected their own scenarios and events throughout, which Frank carefully refuted before continuing. They played it that way for two and a half hours. When they were done, Frank was wound tighter than a spring and had stains under her armpits. The two IA detectives didn’t look much better.

  Frank extended her hand to the men, saying, “Gentlemen, I appreciate your resolve in keeping the LAPD the bastion of civil rights that its become.”

  Stuka reached for her hand before he realized he was being dissed. “Fuck you. You need to get laid proper, Franco. Try a man for once.”

  Frank ran a hand through her hair, musing, “Maybe you’re right, Stukie. Tell you what. I’ll try one if you will.”

  The round little cop moved toward Frank, but his partner grabbed his arm. “Come on, Jer. Don’t waste your time.”

  Frank watched them slip into their office like rats into a hole. She squeezed the back of her neck as she went down the stairs and out into the sunshine. On the way home she picked up a six-pack of Foster’s. She slammed two of them before she even pulled into the driveway.

  The house was quiet. Frank was slightly alarmed until she saw Kennedy lounging in the back yard. Except for a Walkman and a pair of pink underpants, she was naked. Frank stared through the French doors, then quickly turned away. She made a fuss of slamming the refrigerator door, shaking the utensil drawer, banging the cabinets.

  She cracked another beer, grabbed some chips, and carried them around the blue-tiled bar, relieved to see Kennedy had slipped her shirt on. Casually, she stepped outside.

  “Hey. How’s the tanning business?”

  “Good,” Kennedy grinned. “How’s the bar and grill business?”

  Frank shrugged, popping some chips in her mouth.

  “Don’t know how many times I have to repeat the same story to those idiots. They’re so lawsuit-conscious they can’t even do their jobs. They wait for the news and civil rights groups to tell them what to investigate, and then they make up shit instead of going out and looking for real problems.”

  “What’d they say?” Kennedy asked, stretching out on her back, eyes closed against the sun.

  Frank told her Rothman’s scenario and Kennedy started laughing so hard Frank had to warn her not to pull her stitches.

  “Oh geez,” she wailed, “that’s almost as good as you intimidating me with your awesome rank and power.”

  In the hospital, they’d pulled the same stunt on Kennedy. Their scenario for her was that Johnston had tried to run past them and accidentally nicked Kennedy, and that Frank had overreacted and blown him away. It was understandable, of course. There was a lot of stress and chaos going down, but Kennedy could tell them the truth. They understood how Frank could “seduce” Kennedy into going along with her story, how Frank’s aggressive manner and higher rank would naturally be intimidating to a younger, more impressionable detective.

  “Ain’t it a comfort knowing your tax dollars are being well-spent by those two yahoos?”

  Frank sipped, appreciating the buzz she was getting and the sun’s warmth. If Cassandra Nichols’ killer wasn’t still loose, she might have actually enjoyed this time off. Having Kennedy around gave her a focus, and though the kid didn’t need much, she obligingly let Frank fuss over her. But when that was done, Frank’s mind inexorably returned to Agoura/Peterson. She was about to get up and start her trancelike circuit around the table when Kennedy said, “When was the last time you saw a movie?’

  Frank remembered going to the Plaza last Christmas, but she couldn’t remember what she’d seen.

  “Been a while.”

  “Let’s go, then. Later on.”

  Frank felt Kennedy eyeing her expectantly. She pulled on her beer, trying to figure why she suddenly felt uncomfortable. Going to the movies, hanging in the sun, drinking beer—all this was fun. She realized that if Kennedy hadn’t been there she’d have been chafing at the bit, gnashing her teeth until she could get back to work. Frank liked being with Kennedy and that made her nervous. But she wouldn’t go further with the realization.

  “What do you want to see?” she asked cautiously.

  “I don’t care, anything!” Kennedy threw her hands in the air. “Let’s just get out of here. I’m goin’ crazy sittin’ around all day.”

  Frank had to admit Kennedy had been awfully good. She was almost hyperactive, and this convalescence must have been excruciating for her. The least Frank could do was take the kid out to a movie. Considering that as an obligation rather than a pleasure allayed Frank’s anxiety. She swung her legs off the lounge.

  “I’ll get the paper.”

  They picked out a Bond flick and later, as they walked out of the theater, Kennedy gushed, “That was excellent!”

  Frank agreed. “Yeah, it was pretty good. I think Brosnan’s the best Bond since Sean Connery.”

  “Since who?”

  “Sean Connery.”

  “Who’s he?”

  Frank stopped walking and stared at her companion.

  “You don’t know who Sean Connery is, she stated.

  “No,” Kennedy said impatiently.

  Frank remembered the CDs Kennedy had stacked on her bedside table. She’d recognized Stone Temple Pilots and Greenday, but most of the other names were foreign to her. As she explained that Connery was the original James Bond she was struck again by the gap in their ages. She also realized that Kennedy had liked the movie more for its nonstop violence and action than its tongue-in-cheek dialogue and Bond’s implausible urbanity.

  Kennedy wanted coffee, so they stopped at a restaurant a few blocks away. She scarfed a latte and a huge piece of chocolate cake. Frank nursed a brandy, watching the young woman attack her dessert. After she was done, Kennedy smacked her lips and said, “Dang! That was good. Now what do we do?”

  “Get you home to bed.”

  Kennedy’s face lit up lasciviously.

  “Alone?”

  Caught off-guard, Frank almost choked on her drink. She glanced into it, suddenly feeling too hot.

  Kennedy leaned forward, adding, “You shore are purty when you ain’t bein’ so uptight.”

  Frank tossed back her brandy and stood. “Alright. It’s definitely time to go home.”

  She dropped a few bills on the table. Kennedy added some of her own, handing Frank’s back. “You gotta learn to take a compliment, Lieutenant.”

  “Whatever. Let’s go.”

  “Have I spoiled a perfectly fine evening?” Kennedy teased, following closely behind. Glancing around the small parking lot, always looking for trouble, Frank gallantly opened Kennedy’s door. The younger woman slid in and unlocked Frank’s side. They drove down Wilshire in silence, both of them unconsciously scanning the street life. At a red light, Kennedy announced, “So tell me something—”

  “Christ, now what?”

  “Don’t get pissed off, it’s not about your deep, dark past. I was just curious about somethin’.”

  “That’s news.”

  Frank stole a look at Kennedy, who’d turned sideways and was leering at her.

  “Go ahead. Let’s get it over with.”

  “Why’d you ask me to stay yesterday?”

  “Wondering the same thing myself, ri
ght now.”

  Frank shook her head, buying time. It occurred to her that one of the things she liked about the company of men was that they rarely asked personal questions nor divulged their own intimacies. Noah was sometimes an exception to that, but she excused him because he’d grown up with four sisters.

  “Kennedy, do you know how I’d feel if I let you go home and you popped a stitch and bled out all over your living room carpet?”

  “Grateful?” she laughed. “Just that? You’re worried about my health?”

  “What are you fishing for, sport?”

  “Ulterior motives.”

  “Well, maybe there aren’t any. I almost lost you once. I don’t want to lose you again.”

  “Gee, Frank, that’s almost touching. So this is just a huge obligation. Nothing else,” Kennedy stated.

  Frank spotted a hooker who wasn’t really a woman. Transvestites were common prey for pissed-off Johns. She hoped his picture wouldn’t end up on a homicide desk.

  “Not huge at all,” she replied evenly, scanning the street. Kennedy appraised her own side, then said, “And no ulterior motives.”

  “Nope.”

  “Hm. So tell me somethin’ else, why’d you blush back there at the restaurant?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You most certainly did.”

  “Must have been the brandy,” Frank tried.

  Kennedy faced Frank and drawled, “Brandy my ass.”

  Frank had to give the kid high marks for perseverance. “Guess I’m not used to so much flattery.”

  “Ah, but you like it, don’t you?”

  They came to another light. Frank leaned against her door to get a full look at the woman next to her. “Isn’t it way past your bedtime?”

  “You’re not answering my question.”

  “Let’s just say it’s such a novelty, I don’t know one way or another.”

  The signal turned green as Kennedy settled back into her seat. Turning on the radio, she decided, “I think you like it.”

  “Maybe,” Frank agreed, humoring her.

  Kennedy slapped her thighs in time to the music, but suddenly stopped and whirled toward Frank. “Hey! Let’s go to the beach real quick and see what the waves are doing.”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah!”

  “It’s the middle of the night,” Frank protested.

  “Oh, I know,” Kennedy exaggerated. “It’s ten o’clock. Oh my God, that’s so late! Come on. Let’s go. And besides, you don’t have to be anywhere tomorrow.”

  “Thanks for reminding me.”

  She looked briefly at Kennedy, hoping she was joking, but the expectation in her eyes was real.

  “You can’t go swimming,” Frank warned.

  “I know, I just want to see how the surf is. Maybe poke my baby toe in. Please,” she begged.

  Frank sighed. “Tell me where to go.”

  The whores didn’t satisfy him anymore. He just wanted to look at the girls. It didn’t matter if they were Mexican or black or white. He loved how small they were, how unsuspecting. The whores were tough, and certainly not innocent. He never felt bad hurting a whore. They were willing and they got paid for their trouble.

  But the girls were different. He thought about fucking them the way he fucked the whores. For a while, his fantasies were enough.

  27

  The weekend passed amiably. Saturday they fired rounds at the range until Kennedy got tuckered out. She napped in the afternoon while Frank circled the dining room table— restudying, rethinking, trying to be him. She paused once, sensing the sleeping stillness of Kennedy’s presence. It was a good feeling, but the sensation bothered Frank nonetheless. She distrusted pleasures inspired by others. They were ephemeral at best, treacherous envoys for disappointment at worst. Squashing the small feeling, Frank resumed her circuit around the table.

  The next day Kennedy taught Frank how to play canasta, while Frank shared the finer points of football. The good weather still held on Monday, so they returned to the beach. Frank watched Kennedy wade in the surf. When she jogged back to where Frank hunkered next to a cooler, she was absolutely radiant. Once again, the sleeping desire stirred in Frank. She drowned it with half a beer, wondering how many homicides the Pacific had swallowed.

  Kennedy went to bed early that evening, tired from the sun and water. Frank sprawled out on the long couch watching the Eagles beat Dallas. All the Cowboys looked like they were mired in concrete, but if Troy Aikman could get his fat ass out of the pocket they might actually make something happen. Emmitt Smith carried for two miserable yards before succumbing to a flurry of tackles. Frank closed her eyes knowing the next play would either be another hand-off to the overused running back, or a toss to Irvin. The Cowboys’ offense was stale and predictable: it was no surprise that Irvin had been busted for blow and Smith ran like an old crab washed up on the beach.

  She felt sorry for the running back and didn’t envy his Tuesday morning. She thought about the bruises he’d be carrying on his black flesh and remembered the vivid colors on Melissa Agoura’s body under the bright autopsy lights. That image was replaced by the outline of the jean rivet on Jane Doe’s body. Frank pictured a bear of a man wrapping his arms around the homeless girl and falling on her against the hard street. He’d bruised her with his body, his weight crushing against her. Hitting her hard enough to leave a perfectly readable logo on her skin.

  He was ramming his head and his shoulder into me the whole time.

  Lisa McKinney’s words ricocheted against pictures of Agoura and Peterson’s waled corpses. Crocetti’s comment fluttered into the mix: It looks like this poor girl was mistaken for a bowling pin. And then there was the new ME, whatever her name was, who’d said the bruises were apparently made with something flexible or soft.

  Frank whirled her feet squarely onto the floor, concentrating intensely, her head in her hands. She was unaware Dallas had kicked another field goal.

  The overall bruising pattern on Agoura and Peterson was consistent with tackle patterns. Above the knees and below the neck. The faces were relatively unblemished. Clean and legal tackles. Many of the hematomas had large, rounded edges, as if they could have been made by a bowling ball. Consistent with the size and shape of a football helmet. There were no lacerations because there was padding. Either he wore pads or the girls wore it. Maybe both. Agoura’s dislocated shoulder, Peterson’s broken collarbone, the contusions—all were classic football injuries. Frank remembered the cuts and gashes and myriad black-and-blue marks from playing with her cousins.

  There was no evidence the girls had been slapped or hit with fists. No open hands. Legal tackles from a player on the secondary. A linesman could use his hands, a backfield player couldn’t. Ever the skeptic, Frank probed her theory for weak spots. Then she quickly moved to the glass-topped table.

  Forensic tests were complete for Agoura, but the lab was still working on Peterson’s. Frank reread the DOJ analysis, hoping she’d missed a detail, but the report only frustratingly cited the sample colors and compositions. Upon its receipt, Frank had shipped samples to the FBI’s Trace Evidence unit. They wouldn’t be back for three or four weeks at the soonest. Still, the DOJ’s conclusions didn’t exclude the possibility that the fibers could have come from a football jersey.

  Frank started pacing around the table, pausing to make notes to call a uniform shop, sports shop, talk to the lab techs, talk to Crocetti. She thought for a moment. Carver and Crenshaw, where the bodies had been dumped, both had football teams. Was it a cheerleader thing? An old girlfriend? She quickly dismissed both notions because the perp had no specific victimology. If he was fixated on a cheerleader or a particular girl, his vies would fit that mold. None did.

  Okay. Let’s assume you played football, and while I’m assuming, let’s say you played in a secondary position, maybe a safety or a tight end. Maybe even a receiver. But you’re a big guy, you’d make a good tight end. If you’re as much an underachiever as I think you a
re, you probably never made it to college. So maybe you played in Pop Warner and high school. High school ball. Sure. Something happened to you in school, something around football. And now you’re stuck there.

  Frank found her notes from the meeting with Richard Clay. She grabbed a legal pad and returned to the couch. Clarifying ideas on paper, she drew lines through the less likely ones and starred her favorites. Thinking of the red-and-white fibers, Frank made a note to check the color of the football uniforms at Crenshaw and Carver. She grinned broadly, her full smile rare and genuine.

  First thing next morning, Frank was at Crocetti’s office. She startled his replacement when she opened the door without knocking. “Morning. Where’s Crocetti?” she demanded brusquely.

  Gail Lawless sat back in Crocetti’s chair, clearly appalled by Frank’s lack of social skills. Frank hadn’t bothered to change out of her sweats that morning, and with her yellow hair pulled back in a ponytail, and her hard, intense gaze, she looked like an East Bloc Olympic contender.

  “Do you know that most people knock before they enter someone’s office?”

  “Sorry,” Frank said with no attempt at sincerity. “Is he here yet?”

  Shaking her head incredulously, the ME replied, “No. He’s had the flu all last week and called in again.”

  The coroner watched as Frank pursed her lips and glanced around the room as if it were empty.

  “Are you still Relieved of Duty?” she asked curiously.

  “Yeah,” Frank answered, and Dr. Lawless offered, “I…we— Crocetti and I—we did your suspect’s autopsy.”

  When Frank didn’t reply, the coroner tentatively asked, “Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “I don’t know. Crocetti did an autopsy for me, about six weeks ago, a sixteen-year-old Caucasian female. Name was Agoura. I’ve got the case number,” Frank said, producing a slip of paper. She’d left the protocol copies in her trunk, not wanting to be seen with anything resembling case work.