by Baxter Clare
“Yeah, I remember,” the doctor murmured. “I was there.”
She glanced at the number and walked across the large office to a bank of filing cabinets. Lawless found Agoura’s folder and scanned it.
“What about it?” she asked, but then her green eyes narrowed suspiciously and she said, “Hey…why are you here if you’re ROD? Technically, I shouldn’t even be talking to you.”
Realizing the new cutter might be able to help her, Frank dipped her head in acquiescence. “You’re right. I’m not even on the case anymore. Robbery-Homicide has it. But I had a hunch about something last night and wanted to ask a couple of questions before I go off to the big boys half-cocked and make an even bigger fool of myself.”
The doctor weighed Frank’s explanation before smiling skeptically, seeming to relent against her better judgment.
“Don’t get me fired while I’m still on probation,” she warned.
Frank smiled back, her winningest smile, but it didn’t ease the tiredness around her eyes.
“What do you want to know?” Lawless asked.
“While you’re at it, could you pull this file too? Crocetti did this one, but I’d like your opinion.”
Lawless made a reproachful face but pulled Peterson’s file as well. “Anything else?” she asked with sarcasm.
Frank offered a quick, placating nod, jutting her head toward the files in the ME’s hand. “I’m wondering what you think could have made the bruises.”
Lawless returned to Crocetti’s economically contoured chair and spread out the autopsy pictures.
“I don’t think we came up with anything conclusive,” she said as she studied first Agoura, then Peterson.
“Definitely similar bruising, deep, in varying stages, similar placement,” she mused. “I remember Agoura looked like she was hit hard but because there wasn’t any cutting or abrasion we thought it was with something relatively soft—”
“Or the blows could have been padded.”
Frank watched the ME carefully appraise the pictures before nodding her shiny, dark head. She had thick, straight hair in a long bob that bounced whenever she moved. Frank examined her from force of habit. Her eyes were almond-shaped, almost Asian, but she was tall and big-boned, like an Iowa farm girl. She didn’t appear to have any make-up on, which was unusual in L.A., but with her dark brows and lashes she didn’t need any.
She was wearing hospital fatigues. Frank noted her arms matched her milky complexion. The backs of her hands were red and rashed, a reaction to latex gloves, Frank guessed. No rings, but tiny gold scissors dangled from one ear and a matching gold knife hung from the other. There were two long scratches on her left arm, parallel to each other, almost healed. Frank thought maybe she had a cat.
Gail Lawless looked up apologetically. “There’s really no way to tell what did this. There’s such contiguous bruising it’s hard to find specific patterns.”
“You said they were rounded.”
“That much I can give you,” the coroner agreed, “but as to what the specific instrument was…” She shrugged. “Maybe a bowl, a ball, a bowling ball, who knows. It would be awkward at best to wield something like that, especially as much as your suspect did on these girls.”
“How about a football helmet?”
The ME dropped her head over the pictures again. Frank suspected she wore glasses and wondered why she didn’t have them on.
“I could see that,” she said with enthusiasm. She turned the pictures toward Frank and used a pencil to point to specific bruises.
“That would be consistent with the size and shape and the extent of damage on these leading edges. And it would explain the scale of the bruising, especially if he’d been hitting them with it over a period of time like he apparently did.”
“So a definite possibility he was using a helmet on these two?”
“Yes. A definite possibility.”
“And if they wore padding, or he was in padding and hit them with pads on, that could explain the deep bruising but no gashes or abrasions?”
“That could explain it, yes.”
“Good,” Frank said, concisely ending their meeting. She straightened up over the desk.
“Is that all?”
“For now. I appreciate your help,” Frank said simply. “And if RHD happens to drop by, keep this under your hat, would you? I want to tell them myself.”
The ME couldn’t know that Frank would rather chew off her left foot before telling RHD about this.
“No problem,” Lawless smiled.
Frank twitched her lips in a brief semblance of civility and moved toward the door. Once there she turned and looked at the ME’s hands.
“You should try vinyl gloves.”
The doctor followed Frank’s gaze and smiled, a slight tinge coloring her cheeks.
Sitting in the Honda with her long legs sprawled out the door, Frank called Carver and Crenshaw High, as well as a sporting goods store, from the parking lot. She got label names and distributors for local and pro football uniforms, and after a few painstaking hours of telephone work, managed to track down over a dozen trade names for the nylon fibers used in football jerseys.
Then Frank went to the SID lab. Here she dared to take the murder book in, because without her badge or ID it was the best piece of evidence she had to show she was a cop. Making a show of opening the binder and extracting the tagged sample along with Agoura’s official SID report, Frank apologized to the receptionist for not having her ID, but it was her day off and she’d just had a thought while she was doing errands and wanted to stop and ask about it. The petite and perfectly made-up young woman seemed satisfied with Frank’s identity, but informed her that the tech who’d worked on Agoura’s fibers was out of town.
After ten minutes of masterful pleading, conniving, and shameless flattery, Frank was able to persuade a tech to look at her samples. Two hours later, Frank had her answer. The fibers matched a multifilament denier yarn called Caprolan, made by Allied Fibers and Plastics.
Back in her car, Frank exhaled deeply, happily. The fiber was by no means conclusively off a football jersey, but it was definitely one of the fibers used in the manufactured high school uniforms. Satisfied that she was still on the right track, Frank again turned her attention to the phone. Punching in a number, she muttered, “Two down, one to go.”
Richard Clay was next on her list, and she was apprehensive about talking to him.
His rebuke at their last meeting had embarrassed her, professionally and personally. While her call was being transferred, she wondered if he’d be receptive or refuse to help her. Her curiosity was settled when his secretary informed her that he was at a conference in Seattle and wouldn’t be back until Tuesday. Frank was both disappointed and relieved.
She dialed her office and caught Noah on his way out to chase down some witnesses to a drive-by. An eighty-four-year-old grandmother getting out of the backseat of her granddaughter’s car had been the unintended victim.
Frank offered to buy Noah lunch and met him twenty minutes later at Zacateca’s. Sprawled akimbo in a padded red booth, chewing on an ice cube, he was a helluva sight in his baggy suit and Snoopy tie. She realized as she slid in opposite him how much she missed working. Clay’s parting shot gnawed at her.
“Dude-ess,” Noah grinned happily, raising his palm in a high-five.
She slapped his hand and responded, “Dude.”
“Whaddup, Mac Momma?”
Pulling a plastic-coated menu toward her, she replied, “No thing, J-Daddy.”
A pretty waitress said hello to them. Noah glanced up appreciatively. Frank ordered tacos and a beer while Noah went for the wet burrito and more water. He filled Frank in on the last couple of days, bitching about Fubar’s micro-management.
“He’s got us in that fucking station filling out 60Ds and MIRs and doesn’t give a shit about us bein’ out in the field actually trying to close some of these things. As long as he’s got a pile of papers in front
of him he’s happy. Man, you should see us in the morning—we can’t get outta there fast enough. Even Johnnie.”
Noah took another long look as the waitress slid their plates in front of them. “Man,” he complained, “that dildo couldn’t manage his way out of a paper bag without a guide rope and a seeing eye dog.”
The waitress giggled and asked demurely if that was all. Noah grinned goofily and wiggled his empty water glass.
“Damn!” he said, plowing his fork into a huge mound of guacamole, salsa, and sour cream that concealed a burrito somewhere below.
“Jesus, No. Where do you put all that?”
“Gets burned up by all my sexual energy,” he replied around a dripping mouthful.
“That’s more than I needed to know.”
“You asked.”
They ate steadily for ten minutes, then pushed their empty plates away. Noah sat back, groaning, and Frank wiped grease and tomato juice off her fingers. The waitress took their plates and Frank motioned for another Negro Modelo.
“So’d you miss me and decide to take me out to lunch?”
Frank smiled slightly, pushing her bottle around the wet rings on the table.
“I had an idea about the Agoura perp. Talked to SID and Crocetti’s replacement about it. She agreed with me that the bruises could have been made by a football helmet.”
Noah raised his eyebrows, intrigued.
Frank continued with her theory and when she was done, Noah nodded, “Interesting, but what’s this have to do with me?”
“I want you to go back to Crenshaw. Interview the coaching staff. Get all—”
“Whoa.” Noah held his palms up. “This isn’t our case anymore.”
“I know.”
Noah bent over the table. “Then why am I out there knocking?”
“Because I’m ROD and you’re not. I can’t get to these people.”
Noah laughed incredulously.
“Uh-uh. No way, Frank.”
She let him fidget and rationalize all the reasons why he couldn’t and wouldn’t do it. When he ran out of steam she just kept staring.
“No, if I had my badge this would be an order, but I don’t so I’m asking for a favor. Don’t play innocent on me. You knew when you copied the murder books for me that I wasn’t going to hand it over to RHD and walk away from it. I can’t. I’m too into it now. If they close it first, that’s great. I hope that prick gets off the street ASAP, but this isn’t a high-profile case and you know what they’ll do with it. They’ll stick it on the burner behind the Carnassian OD and the Woodall capping.”
Frank was referring to an influential businessman’s suspicious overdose and the shooting of a Hollywood producer outside his favorite Chinese restaurant. “And there are other higher priority cases behind those.”
Noah was fiercely shaking his head. Frank slid her bottle out of the way and leaned toward him. “No, when was the last time this guy attacked somebody?”
“Jennifer Peterson. A couple weeks ago.”
“Right. And before that?”
“Agoura, in October.”
“And before that?”
“What’s your point, Frank?”
“My point is he’s averaging about a victim per month. Meaning he’s due.”
Frank sat back and let that sink in, taking a hit off of her beer. “Do we just sit back and say, ‘Hey, not my problem anymore. Not my job’?”
Noah stared hopelessly at the traffic out on Slauson. “What about my cases? When in the hell am I supposed to work on those?”
“I’ll help you with them, do what I can without a badge. Hell, I’ll even write your fucking reports for you. Just go talk to these people for me. I can’t do it, No.”
“Shit.”
“Feel them out, get a roster of kids on the football team for the last twenty years. Get copies of all the old yearbooks. We’re looking for a white guy in predominantly black/Hispanic schools. It won’t be that bad.”
Noah just repeated his prior expletive and rose clumsily from the booth.
“Thanks for lunch,” he said with heavy sarcasm, and left her sitting there. She finished her beer, feeling bad about adding to his work load, though encouraged they were taking action. Frank wanted this perp. She saw dead kids all the time, but now and then one got to her, especially when the perp was still out there. She’d known when she was interviewing the rape victims that she wasn’t going to be able to drop this case until the guy responsible was dead or behind bars.
She paid the tab and walked out, a cool breeze from the west making her glad she had a sweatshirt on. She trusted Noah would do as much as he could, as quickly as he could. She was just going to wait to hear from him. It was maddening that she couldn’t do the work herself, but she was determined to be patient. Meanwhile, she’d distract herself by taking care of Kennedy.
The first time it had been almost like a dream. He could see himself watching her. She was having a picnic with her mother and another woman and two little boys. He was within earshot of them but was pretending to read a newspaper propped against the steering wheel.
He heard her asking her mother if she could go to the other end of the park. She was bored. The mother reluctantly shooed her off. He watched her, and before he lost sight of her he started the car and drove to the other end of the park. This end was never as busy as the fishing ponds or the picnic areas. There weren’t any cars in the lot. He parked near the bathroom and stood next to the men’s room. He still didn’t really know what he was going to do. He was nervous and sweating, and he felt his heart pumping loudly in his head. Peeking around the corner he saw her walking up the road, swinging a little stick in time to a song she was singing.
He waited. Her song came closer, a soft sound, and he smiled. She was right outside the bathroom. Oh god, he could hear her, she was so close and alone. He looked. She was reading a placard, still singing. He moved from the men’s room entrance. What happened next was like he was someone else.
He grabbed her quickly from behind, had her neck in the crook of his elbow before she even had a chance to turn and see him. Somewhere in the calmer depths of his mind he realized that was a good thing. It bolstered his confidence. She tried to cry, but he quietly told her to shut up or he’d kill her. He wondered if he meant that. He didn’t know, but it felt good to say it. Holding her against him he dragged her into a thick stand of brush, never letting her see him. And he didn’t want to see her. He only wanted one thing.
28
One of the worst things about being ROD was waking up in the middle of the night and not having anywhere to go. Frank picked up the pysch text by her bed, hoping it would distract her from the thoughts that came loose in the night, like boats silently slipping their moorings. After an hour, nowhere closer to sleep, she finally threw off the comforter and headed for the garage, sharply aware how empty the house was.
Kennedy had left a few days ago, promising to call Frank if she needed anything. Her leaving was inevitable, but Frank hadn’t expected to miss her. Leaning out the patio door for a moment, Frank noted the thick, damp fog, and thought of the night they’d gone to the beach. Kennedy had pointed out the few stars that managed to outshine the city lights. It had been a long time since Frank had really looked at them. They were beautiful.
Flustered, angry with her own foolishness, Frank retreated inside, slamming the door loudly. She was alone and could make as much noise as she wanted. She flipped on the scanner and turned the volume up, forcing static and chatter into the emptiness.
She started her workout, registering the 12-Adam calls and mostly ignoring the rest. A 7-Adam domestic, woman assaulting a man with a cooler, reminded her of an old partner. Literally up to his ass in women, Petey had a wife at home and a girlfriend in every sector of Figueroa. One night he’d stopped during their break to knock off a quick piece while Frank waited outside in the unit. She was thinking about what she was going to make for dinner when Petey hauled ass out of the complex. His pants w
ere flapping open, he had his gun belt in one hand, his hat in the other. The girlfriend was running after him in a slip, her hair all wild, and a woman Frank had never seen before was right behind them. The women were hollering in Spanish. Frank couldn’t make out what they were saying, but the girlfriend kept slapping Pete with a cast-iron skillet while the other woman jabbed at him with a mop. He’d screamed at Frank, “Drive! Drive!” and she’d scooted into the driver’s seat. Pete barely missed her lap as he dove in on the passenger side. Frank gunned away, glancing at her partner. He was bleeding and trying to catch his breath.
“Guess she wasn’t in the mood,” Frank had noted dryly.
“Christ,” he’d sworn. “We’re in the kitchen, and I’m puttin’ it to Marta, and this woman comes in and starts screaming. I’m trying to figure out what the hell’s going on and I look around and it’s Luz!” Luz was his girlfriend on 52nd Street.
“How the fuck was I supposed to know they’re sisters?” he’d moaned.
Frank had heard the expression, “The clothes make the man,” but she’d never seen proof of it until she started patrol. It was true: women were fools for guys in uniform. She was musing whether it was the outfit or the persona attached to it that turned women on, when a dispatcher called a 3-Adam on a possible 187 at Dorsey High School.
Frank slammed the treadmill’s emergency stop. Dorsey High was just north of Culver City. The 3-Adam call was being handled by the Southwest Division, bordering Figueroa’s north side. A possible homicide at a high school near Culver City. At dawn on a weekday. Frank yanked her towel off the machine and sprinted to the dining room table, grabbing car keys and her old .38. It was one of three revolvers she owned, and the one she carried since she’d been forced to turn over her Beretta. She slipped the holstered weapon on over her wet T-shirt, zipped a sweat jacket over it, and slammed out the front door.
