Bannerman's Law

by John R. Maxim

  Now, two women, but they didn't act like reporters after all. No press card on their visor. Dressed in sweaters and jeans. No camera. And one of them had keys.

  They were inside for perhaps twenty minutes when the two men in gray suits pulled up in a mustard-colored Olds-mobile. The men went first to the super's apartment, showed him their wallets, talked to him for a while, then climbed the stairs that the two women had taken. When they got to the door, Dommerich saw the older one raise a hand, silencing the other. They stood there, heads cocked, as if listening. Then the younger one snuck back down, carefully, no noise, and made a call on his radio. He crept back up and the older one opened the door, very slowly. They disappeared inside. Three minutes later the swarm finally started.

  Two, then three police cruisers, lights, sirens, all from different directions. Screeching in. Cops running up the stairs. Dommerich wanted to run himself, but he didn't.

  Two women, one in handcuffs, coming out. The little one yelling at one of the suits. Tries to kick him. Two uniformed cops pick her up, carry her down the stairs. Another cop car comes, this one unmarked, two detectives in it.

  The tall woman is arguing with one of the gray suits. The younger suit is carrying two purses, going through them. A crowd gathering, mostly black, starting to boo the way they're treating the little one. Two of the uniforms are holding up their hands, trying to move them back.

  Sumner Dommerich stepped from his car and moved closer, joining two white women with shopping carts who were watching from across the street. He could see better now but he couldn't hear. And the little one looked familiar. He crossed Alameda, pretending not to see the policeman who waved him back.

  The detectives and the gray suits were in a huddle. The suits were angry but the detectives seemed almost amused. One of the uniforms said something to his partner and the partner had to stifle a laugh. Dommerich moved closer.

  Now one of the suits, the older one, turned to the woman. . . who looked like Lisa, he realized . . . and, sure enough, he called her Miss Benedict. What he said was “Who are you, Miss Benedict?”

  It struck Dommerich as a stupid question for anyone who had eyes, not to mention her purse, but then he overheard two of the uniforms.

  ” . . . knocked the two feds on their asses,” one said, smirking.

  “That little one? The sister?”

  The first uniform nodded toward the two agents. “They say they flashed. The sister and her friend say they didn't. So the sister takes them down and lays a bread knife across one of their throats until he yells he's FBI.”

  “No shit,” said the other appreciatively and then, to Dommerich, “Would you move back, sir.”

  Dommerich melted into the crowd. He worked his way to a new point of vantage. Now, at the mustard-colored Oldsmobile, they were taking the handcuffs off Lisa Benedict's sister. Freed, she spun on them, cursing. They backed away. “Don't push your luck,” he heard the older one say.

  The taller woman, whom Dommerich heard them call Miss Farrell, pulled Lisa's sister toward the blue Chevrolet. Lisa's sister argued. She wasn't finished upstairs, she said. Another car pulled up. A sign on the visor said Los Angeles Times. The one named Farrell saw it. “Now,” he hissed. “Right now.”

  They started their engine. Across the street, down a little, a second engine whirred and caught. Dommerich had not noticed, especially, but one of the uniforms did. He looked, squinting, at a silver Honda that was idling at the far curb a few yards up from his own Volkswagen hatchback.

  “Isn't that Joe Hickey?” the uniform asked his partner.

  “Oh. yeah,” the partner answered, frowning. Dommerich thought he saw contempt on both their faces. Probably another reporter.

  A police cruiser moved, allowing the blue Chevrolet to back out onto Alameda. Dommerich was sorry to see them go. He'd like to have told the little one that her sister was nice. That he'd seen her almost every morning, jogging down Alameda, two miles, almost to Watts, where she bought a bran muffin, sometimes a bagel with cream cheese, and then she'd run back. He saw that she smiled and waved at people while she ran and so, a lot of mornings, he would go for a walk where she'd have to pass him on the way.

  She didn't smile at him the first time. That made him feel bad. But she did the time after that because he decided he'd try smiling first. It worked. After that, it worked every time. Even when he pretended to be looking the other way, she'd say “Hi!” and he'd say “Oh, hi!” right back.

  And he'd feel good all the way home.

  He'd like to have told her sister that. He'd like to have told her that he would never have hurt her. That it wasn't him.

  Sumner Todd Dommerich walked back to his car.

  “Smooth, Carla.” Molly Farrell scowled as she straightened her wheels and pressed the accelerator. “So much for keeping a low profile.”

  “They could have identified themselves.” The smaller woman folded her arms, muttering. Molly caught the word assholes.

  Molly had to agree, although she was in no mood to admit it. Walking in, not knocking, pointing guns at a woman who was hardly likely to be the Campus Killer and was almost certain to be a friend or relative, ignoring her request for identification.

  For all she knew, and all Carla knew, they could have been the ones who murdered Lisa, using the keys they'd taken from her, back for another search of the apartment.

  Molly let out a sigh. Now who's kidding who? She knew they were FBI the instant they showed in the doorway. Those suits, those haircuts, carrying those dumb little Detective Specials. Coming in, one high, one low. She could have, she supposed, let out a ladylike squeal so they wouldn't wonder why she wasn't afraid. Well . . . now they're wondering about a lot more than that. Such as who is this hundred-pound redhead who ducks into a closet when she hears them at the door and then, with a kick and a kitchen knife, takes two armed men from behind.

  “You think they'll run a make on us?” Carla asked, looking ahead.

  “Wouldn't you?”

  Carla shrugged. “Maybe they'll be too embarrassed.” A tiny smile.

  “Trust me.”

  The older one, Scholl, is probably calling it in right now, she thought, while the other starts his search of Lisa's apartment. The first thing he'll do is check the messages on that machine. He'll assume that she must have played it but he'll have DiDi Fenerty's name. He'll look for her phone number in Lisa's address book and that's when he'll notice that the book, among other things, seems to be missing. He'll know they didn't take it, having searched their purses. But at least one question had been answered. The FBI had not been there before. Not them, not the police either.

  “What else is missing?” she asked Carla.

  “Birthday presents,” she answered. Her manner became distant again. ''A Nikon I gave her last year. A tape recorder from three years ago. Some jewelry.”

  “Jewelry? You're sure?”

  “All her gold. Two chains, two bracelets, some earrings, and a pearl necklace. He didn't touch the junk.”

  Molly wasn't sure why she was surprised. She'd had it in her head that Lisa might have known the killer. Or might have suspected him. Might even have been writing about him. Why else would someone come into that apartment and destroy or take everything that might have held notes? Even to the extent of looking through all her books. The recorder might have held oral notes. The Nikon, undeveloped film. But why the jewelry?

  She'd read an article once about serial killers. She knew that they often kept souvenirs. Usually grisly ones such as fingers, ears, nipples. There was a man named Kemper, another Californian, who kept his mother's head for a week and used it as a dart board.

  But they were not, as a rule, thieves. A piece of jewelry might serve for a souvenir but, she felt sure, it would probably be something the victim was wearing at the time he killed her. Not jewelry from her home. And not just the expensive pieces.

  Better, she thought, not to ask these questions aloud just yet. Or to start Carla wondering who els
e might have wanted her sister dead. She's enough of a time bomb as it is.

  Carla poked her. “You can't stay mad,” she said.

  “Yes, I can,”

  “Uh-uh.” She shook her head. “We're best friends now.”

  No answer.

  “Tonight we'll talk about boys and do each other's hair.”

  Molly looked away.

  “You can tell me how it feels to get laid and I'll show you how to pop zits without leaving big red pimples.”

  Molly smiled, but she frowned inside. Carla Benedict, making jokes. This wasn't like her. Especially now. Ahead, on Alameda, she spotted a convenience store. She slowed, then pulled to the curb when she saw a sign indicating that it had a public phone. Carla followed her eyes.

  “Who are you calling?” she asked.

  “Not me. You. See if there's a listing for DiDi Fenerty. If she answers, tell her you'd like to see her right away. If she doesn't, don't leave a message, but get the address.”

  “See her about what? Old movies? Lisa was dead for hours by then.”

  ”I think DiDi has a copy of her computer files.”

  Carla blinked. “That someone wiped off her machine?’'

  “And heard the same message we did.” Molly gestured toward the store front. “Go make the call.”

  Sumner Todd Dommerich had not intended to follow them. They were already out of sight by the time he started driving north on Alameda. He was not due at work until noon. He had time to drive over to the campus, have breakfast, read another newspaper. See what it said about Lisa. And what else it said about him. Maybe do his laundry there and listen to what the students were now saying about him. Or sit in on a lecture. There was no place he couldn't go at Southern Cal because (the thought always made him smile) he knew how to make himself invisible.

  Had it not been for the silver Honda, he might not have spotted the blue Chevrolet at all. The Honda, just ahead, had stopped at the curb again. That man, Hickey, was crouching behind the wheel. What made him especially easy to spot was that he was holding his arms up over his shoulders, his hands cupped around his temples as if he were looking through binoculars. Dommerich drove past him, not slowing.

  Yes. That was him. Beefy. Thick lips. Thin hair, brushed straight back, not clean, curled and shaggy at his neck. And he was holding a video camera, not binoculars.

  Dommerich followed its aim and he saw Lisa's sister. She was coming out of a convenience store. He saw a sheet of paper in her hand, a black stripe across the top like a page from the phone book. She held it aloft, waving it, and he followed her eyes to the blue Chevrolet and the woman named Farrell. Dommerich kept going.

  He drove north for another long block and he pulled into the parking lot of a store selling cheap furniture.

  Something was funny here, he thought. If the man, Hickey, was a reporter, why didn't he just go talk to them? Why was he sneaking around, following them, taking pictures? Why couldn't he just leave Lisa's sister alone? The policeman, back there, didn't seem to like this man very much. Dommerich was beginning to see why. He didn't like him very much either.

  He waited until the blue Chevrolet went by, and then the silver Honda. He fell in behind them, memorizing the Honda's license plate as he drove. The Chevrolet turned west on Slauson. The Honda followed for two miles. Then, both cars climbed onto the Harbor Freeway, northbound, and got off again at the Vernon Avenue ramp. A little way farther, they turned north on Vermont.

  This was really weird, thought Dommerich. They seemed headed toward the campus. They were going exactly the way he would have gone if he hadn't seen them first. If he didn't know better, he almost would have thought that they knew he would be there. But he wasn't. He was behind them.

  He felt a tinge of relief, not unmixed with disappointment, when he saw that they were driving past the campus proper. But, suddenly, they turned left and he felt better. They were heading into the area, just north of the campus, where many of the students had apartments.

  Lisa's sister and the older woman seemed lost. They kept turning, left and right, once making an illegal U-turn and doubling back. He could see that Lisa's sister was holding a map. They drove right past the silver Honda but they didn't seem to notice him. The Honda made the same turn but Dommerich couldn't. The light had changed. The Honda disappeared from his rearview mirror.

  He began cruising the side streets in the hope of spotting them again. Five minutes later, crossing Menlo Avenue, he did. The Chevrolet was double-parked outside a big old Victorian, painted yellow. He knew that house. Number 2101. It had an antique popcorn wagon on the porch, chained down, and a park bench, probably stolen. Three or four graduate students lived there. Stained glass in the front door and in some of the windows. Lots of movie posters on living room wall and framed covers of old fan magazines in the foyer. That was as far inside as he'd ever been except he used the bathroom once.

  Lisa's sister and the other woman were already on the porch, the taller one ringing the bell. The Honda was nowhere in sight. Dommerich found a space halfway up the street. Recalling how he'd spotted the man named Hickey, he knew he couldn't just sit there. He stepped from his car and opened the hatch. He took out a peaked red and green cap with a pizza company logo on it and a large insulated pouch for keeping pizzas warm. The two made a wonderful disguise, he knew. No one ever looked twice at a pizza delivery boy.

  He had no special plan in mind. Except to see Lisa's sister again. Get a better look. Maybe even hear her voice. Maybe pretend that he couldn't find an address. Get her to help him. Be nice to him.

  He approached the blue Chevrolet. The street map, he saw, was still on the dashboard. Good. That would be a reason for speaking to her. Also, on the console, there was a parking stub from the Beverly Hills Hotel and the page he'd seen in her hand. He was right. It was from a phone book. Page 332. All the listings started with F.

  A flash of silver caught the corner of his eye. The Honda. It was slowly rounding the next corner. Dommerich’s heart rose to his throat but then he remembered. He was invisible. He stood erect, pretending to look around for the address that ordered a pizza. He chose a house two doors up with no cars in its driveway. He went there and pretended to ring the bell.

  The Honda, which had hesitated several houses farther up, now cruised by, slowly. The two women were no longer on the porch. The Honda went on to the far corner where the driver with the greasy hair pulled to the curb three cars forward of where Dommerich had parked. Dommerich, tugging his visor down over his eyes, returned to his car. Opening the hatch, he took out a three-sided plastic pizza sign that had a magnetic base. He centered it on his roof. Now even his car would be invisible.

  14

  At the storefront office of Luxury Travel Ltd. In Westport's Compo Shopping Plaza, Paul Bannerman was preparing to leave for lunch—joining Susan at Mario's—when the light flashed on his private line.

  He closed the glass door, shutting out the buzz from the reservations desks, and picked up the receiver. He said his name, then sat when he heard Lesko's voice.

  ”I was wrong about them having a suspect,” Lesko told him. “Kaplan says they got zilch.”

  Bannerman was surprised. “No lists of known sex offenders? No anonymous tips abut possibles who fit the profile?”

  “They've got those up the ass,” Lesko answered. “Kaplan says they've all been checked out. . . . I'm talking more than five hundred here. . . . And about twenty were worth a few days' surveillance, mostly because they had the killer's blood type. Most of those have been eliminated, or at least they were someplace else when the last killing went down.”

  “Which one? Carla' s sister?”

  “No. The one before. Kaplan found out why they don't think the same guy did Lisa Benedict.”

  Bannerman waited.

  “You gotta keep this quiet, okay? They keep it out of the papers for a reason.”

  ”I understand.”

  “Four things,” Lesko told him. “First, the guy took some
hair from each of the first six but not from Carla's sister. And the others were all blond, by the way, so make that five things.”

  “They're sure? That no hair's missing, I mean?”

  “Yeah. This guy takes a pretty good chunk and some scalp about the size of a half dollar. The shrinks call it a totem. Basically a souvenir. You wouldn't believe the things some of these guys cut off and keep.”

  Yes, he would. “What else?”

  “The next thing is she was douched. She was douched real good.”

  Bannerman blinked. “You mean after she was . . .”

  “Yeah. No semen. No blood samples. In fact, she was scrubbed all over. Even under her nails.”

  Bannerman’s frown deepened. “Go on.”

  “Here's the big one. Someone tried to revive her after she was strangled. And they don't think it was the strangler.”

  A long silence. “How would they know that?”

  “Hand prints,” Lesko answered. “One size hand choked her. A bigger hand used CPR. He left marks on her chest where he tried to pump it and on her cheek where he held it like for mouth to mouth. They also think he closed her eyes because they should have been open like all the others. And that ear-to-ear smile was cut long after she was dead,”

  Bannerman rubbed his eyes, taking a moment to absorb all this. Lesko was patient.

  “There's more,” Lesko cleared his throat, “but it's all theory.” Bannerman heard the sound of a page being turned.

  “Go ahead. Please.”

  “First, about the smile . . .” Lesko took a breath. “The medical examiner thinks whoever cut it wasn't enjoying himself. He used words like hesitant, uneven. In other words, he made a mess of it. The six others showed more practice.”

  Bannerman tried to blink away the image that his mind seemed to insist on showing him. “Is that it?” he asked.

  “Just about.” Another sound, a new page being turned. “For what this is worth,” he said, “the first victim also went to USC and she lived maybe a half mile from Lisa. Kaplan says, or the FBI says, that the first victim of a serial killer is usually fairly close to where he lives or works. The guy couldn't help himself. A sudden impulse. But after that, he tries to spread it around more. Kaplan says it's unusual to hit his own neighborhood a second time.”