by Robert Ellis
“You’re in luck,” Gainer said. “I just spoke with Madina. He’s changed his schedule. His plane lands at noon in Burbank. You’re in tomorrow afternoon despite the backup.”
She had been hoping for this. She wanted Art Madina to perform the autopsy, but knew that he was attending a medical conference in New Haven. Because the victim had been dismembered, she was counting on the pathologist’s expertise.
“Did you bring him up to speed?”
Gainer nodded. “I told him that we left her the way we found her. That what’s left of her is still inside the bag.”
Gainer’s voice trailed off. He had been on the job as a coroner’s investigator for at least a decade. Lena figured that in those ten years he had seen all there was to ever see. Yet, she sensed something in his voice as he spoke about Jane Doe No. 99 tonight. Something different in his eyes. Something she respected and admired in the man.
“We have to start at the beginning,” she said.
“Madina knows that she’s a Jane Doe. You’re in good hands. It’s all set.”
“Thanks, Ed. And thanks for hanging in this long.”
“No problem. You know that, Lena. What happened to Sweeney and Banks?”
“They took off with the kid. We’re opening the streets and shutting down.”
They shook hands, then she watched him climb into the van and drive off with the corpse. As she turned back to the alley, she shivered in the cold night air and reached inside her jacket for the chief’s itinerary. This was the first time in the past six hours that she had thought about the chief or his adjutant. For six hours she had been working for the victim, free of the weight of department politics. She unfolded the paper and moved beneath a street light. According to the schedule, Chief Logan was still at Parker Center. The Police Commission was holding another emergency meeting on gang violence. Lena remembered seeing a flyer posted outside the captain’s office. A proposal was on the table that called for the appointment of a gang czar, with $1 billion to be spent on a Marshall-like plan that included gang intervention programs and economic development. Because half the homicides in Los Angeles were now attributable to gang violence, and that violence was spilling into the wealthiest neighborhoods in the city, this was a serious meeting and the chief would be tied up until ten or eleven. If she left now and lucked out with traffic, she might be able to catch him before the meeting ended.
She slung her briefcase over her shoulder and started down the alley. As she stepped around the SID truck, she heard the press shouting questions at her from across the street but ignored them. The air felt raw and she couldn’t wait to get the heat on. When she finally reached her car and lit up the engine, her cell phone started vibrating and she checked the display.
The call was from Denny Ramira, the one and only reporter who knew her cell number. Ramira worked the crime beat for The Times. Even though they shared a certain history, she was reluctant to take the call. She stared at the phone for a while, then changed her mind and flipped it open.
“I know this is out of line,” he said. “But I’m freezing my balls off out here and it looks like you guys are packing up. You’ve got nothing to say, right?”
“You’re a mind reader.”
“But this is your case, right, Lena?”
Something about the question seemed odd. Even out of place. She sat back in the seat, thinking it over.
“It’s your case, right?” he repeated.
“What’s going on, Denny?”
“I’m not sure. I got a heads-up about the murder. My contact wanted to make sure I knew you got the case.”
“Who’s your contact?”
Ramira hesitated. “Just some guy I know. But everybody out here got the same call. The question is why.”
If it had been a multiple-choice question, none of the answers seemed very good. Still, this wasn’t her main concern right now.
“Gotta go, Denny.”
“Yeah, sure. I’m heading downtown to Parker Center. Maybe I can catch the end of that meeting. Maybe the night won’t be a total bust.”
Lena winced. “Maybe you can touch base with that guy you know.”
She closed her phone before he could respond, hoping she wouldn’t run into him at Parker Center. Pulling out of the lot, she made a left to avoid the media, then looped around the block and worked her way down to Gower and Sunset. She had skipped dinner, the view of the victim’s lifeless eyes staring back at her from that trash bag still way too vivid. But she needed something. As she pulled into the lot at Gower Gulch, she didn’t see a line at Starbucks and ran in. Five minutes later, she was back on the road, toggling through recent calls until she found Howard Benson’s number. Benson had been a classmate at the academy and now worked in the Missing Persons Unit. Once they determined that the victim couldn’t be identified, Benson had been her first call. But that was more than three hours ago and she hadn’t heard from him. After six rings, he finally picked up.
“Sorry, Lena, but you didn’t really give me much to go on.”
“I’ll have more tomorrow,” she said. “I was just hoping something in the database would jump out.”
“A white female in her twenties with blond hair goes missing in Southern California. I’ve got a lot of those. Nothing’s jumping out.”
Lena didn’t say anything. The number she had dialed wasn’t Benson’s cell phone. It was his office number, and he sounded moody and tired.
“Lena, I’m sorry. All I’m saying is that we need more.”
“What about limiting the search to the last twenty-four to forty-eight hours?”
“I tried that, but it’s still a long list. Lots of kids come to southern California. And a lot of them are runaway females with blond hair. Only they’re not living the dream. They’re on the streets doing the nightmare.”
Lena thought it over as she accelerated up the freeway entrance and hit the 101 heading downtown. If Jane Doe was murdered last night, then it was too early. A Missing Persons Report wouldn’t be filed for another day, if a report was filed at all.
“I’m jumping the gun on this, Howard. I know that. I was just hoping for a little luck.”
“We’ll talk after the autopsy. I’m sure we can narrow it down. Height, weight—something will turn up.”
“Thanks, Howard.”
She tossed her phone onto the passenger seat and took a sip of coffee. It was hot and strong, and she needed it right now. She saw the long string of brake lights begin to glow through the windshield. Then the traffic slowed down to a crawl and finally stopped. Benson had triggered an unwanted memory without knowing it. Lena had been a sixteen-year-old runaway, along with her younger brother David. After their father died, they had fled Denver before the Department of Human Services could scoop them up and dump them into the system. They had spent six months living in their father’s car before they earned enough money to rent a small place of their own. They had left their childhoods in Colorado, and never turned back.
She took another sip of coffee. As the traffic started moving again, the memory vanished but not the loneliness. It was such an oppressive loneliness. So final and far-reaching. She tried to ignore it and to concentrate on the road.
The eight-mile drive downtown should have taken ten minutes, but turned into a grueling forty-five played out at ten miles an hour. By the time she found a spot to park in the LAPD garage and jogged across the street to Parker Center, it was almost eleven and people were beginning to file out of the meeting room on the first floor.
She pushed her way through the crowd. As she entered the room, she spotted the chief and his adjutant getting up from their seats. By Lena’s count four of the five civilian commissioners were still here, fielding informal questions from the press and the thirty to forty people who stayed. But it seemed as if an energetic man with gray hair was getting most of the attention tonight. When he turned, Lena realized that it was Senator Alan West. West had been appointed to the commission by the mayor and approved
in a unanimous vote by the City Council in an attempt to regain public trust in the department. He was three years in on his first five-year term. Although there was talk that West might make another run at politics, Lena had read in the newspaper that he thought his work overseeing the police department was just as important. While the chief handled day-to-day operations within the department, a civil rights attorney, a former mayor, two criminal defense attorneys, and Senator Alan West defined department policies.
Lena turned back to the chief. He was beckoning her forward. When she glanced at Klinger, he pointed to the alcove at the head of the room. Although she still wondered why the chief had picked Klinger as his adjutant, tonight they looked like bookends. Both men obviously worked out, their bodies lean, straight, and military tight. And their grooming was immaculate, verging on overprocessed, their hair short and gray. The only difference was in their eyes. Klinger’s were a soft, even wounded brown without much catch. The chief’s gave definition to his chiseled face and intelligence, but were as dark as night and at times uncomfortable.
She stepped around the conference table and entered the alcove, wishing she had better news. When Klinger started to say something, Chief Logan silenced him with a short wave of the hand.
“Let’s hear it, Gamble. Who’s your suspect?”
“We’ve got a long way to go,” she said. “I know that’s not what you want to hear, Chief. But that’s the way it is. We’re starting from scratch. Zero.”
“What about witnesses?”
“We interviewed every shop owner on the block. Every employee. There aren’t any witnesses.”
She couldn’t get a read on him with those eyes. All she knew was that the chief didn’t take the news the way she thought he would. It was almost as if he’d been hit in the chest and had the wind knocked out of him. But his wheels were turning. She could see him thinking something over. If he’d been a suspect in an interrogation room, she would have guessed that he was guilty of something and holding out.
He shot her another penetrating look. “Then you don’t even know who the victim is.”
“We didn’t find any ID.”
“What about her clothing?”
Lena shook her head, remaining silent. The victim wasn’t wearing any clothing.
“Here are my concerns, Detective. I don’t want this to be a long, drawn-out case. If you don’t have anything in the next forty-eight hours, chances are you won’t have anything ever. You know that as well as I do. Your chances for success go to shit by fifty percent.”
Lena didn’t need the chief to give her the odds. When she glanced away, she saw Denny Ramira enter the meeting room and approach Senator West. From the way they shook hands, she guessed that they knew each other.
The chief must have noticed the reporter as well. When Lena turned to him, he was standing so close she instinctively took a step back.
The chief lowered his voice. “I don’t want to read about this investigation in the newspaper, Detective. I don’t want to see it on TV. You pull anything, and I mean anything like that, and you’re out. All the way out. So far out nobody in law enforcement ever hears from you again. Do you understand?”
She gave him a long look.
“You’re either a company man,” he said. “Or you’re a man without a company. You get the logic, Detective? Do you realize how serious this is? What will be tolerated and what won’t?”
“I get it, Chief.”
“This isn’t another OIS case. This is a homicide, and I want a suspect. I need an arrest.”
The chief came up for air, then Klinger stepped forward as if it were a tag-team match. Lena suddenly realized who made those calls to the press. It had to be Klinger, doing everything he possible could to make things more difficult for her.
“We want reports,” he said. “The chief’s office is to be copied on everything. No one cares if it takes twice as long. Just do your job and do it by the book, Gamble. We’re your partner now. And we’re not a silent partner. You want to make a right turn, you ask before you make it. You want to go left, make sure you’ve got the order and it’s signed by a judge. We’re your shadow, is that clear? Please acknowledge that we have had this conversation and you understand what was just—”
Klinger suddenly became quiet. Everyone turned. Senator West was standing at the entrance, starring at them with a quizzical expression across his broad face.
“Sounds like a serious discussion, Chief. I hope I’m not interrupting.”
Lena could tell in an instant that West wasn’t sorry at all. From the look he gave the chief and his adjutant, it seemed they probably didn’t get along. She remembered hearing a rumor that the chief’s appointment had not been a unanimous decision by the police commission. That the water had been cloudy, and one of the five members voted against his appointment. Lena wondered if the lone vote of dissension came from West. From the look on Chief Logan’s face, and Klinger’s, they had heard the rumor and come to the same conclusion.
“We’re finished here,” the chief said. “It’s no interruption at all, Senator.”
“I’m glad, because I’m a fan of Detective Gamble.”
West turned away from the chief and gazed at Lena. His eyes were clear and easy and filled with a certain wisdom.
“When Denny Ramira pointed you out,” he said, “I couldn’t believe that you were here. I followed the Romeo murders just like everybody else. I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time.”
He smiled and reached for her hand. She could feel the tension in the room. But then Klinger turned away from the senator and stepped out of the alcove. As the chief began to follow his adjutant, he stopped at the entrance and shot Lena another look.
“There’s been a change, Detective. The autopsy’s scheduled for tomorrow morning—eight sharp—not sometime in the afternoon.”
“What about the pathologist?”
“We can’t waste time. I told Madina that if he needs to sleep, he’d better do it on the plane.”
The chief didn’t wait for a response from her. Instead, he marched through the meeting room and followed Klinger into the lobby. West watched them exit, then turned back and spoke in a voice that wouldn’t carry.
“This is Los Angeles, Detective. Chiefs come and go. But now more than ever, we need people like you to fill the ranks and take charge.”
Lena didn’t really follow politics, but had read enough to know that West was one of the good guys. The senator obviously had overheard the chief and his adjutant giving her the goods. He had interrupted them in order to help her. While she appreciated the gesture, he was slighting her commanding officer. No matter how great the compliment, it would have been out of line to respond. Instead, she was thinking about the autopsy. Only the chief could have forced Madina to shorten his trip in New Haven. Only the chief could make it happen so quickly. She wasn’t upset. She was grateful. She was thrilled.
Her mind surfaced. Something glistened in the light, and her eyes flicked down the senator’s jacket. He was wearing a pin on his lapel. Not the obligatory depiction of the flag, but something far more personal.
“Would you like to see it?” West asked.
She nodded. “The firefighters. They gave it to you after nine-eleven.”
He flashed a warm smile—his blue eyes sparkling—then removed the pin and handed it to her.
“It was a gift,” he said. “I wear it every day. It’s something I’ll never forget.”
Lena rolled the pin over in her palm until the gold caught the light. It was a three-dimensional work of art depicting an LAFD fire engine set at ground zero in New York City. Nine firefighters stood on top of the truck raising a ladder toward the sun. Lena remembered when West had been honored by the Los Angeles Fire Department because her entire division participated in the ceremony. But she had never seen the pin before in real life, only pictures of the bright red and gold object printed in the paper. It was handmade by an artist living in South Pasadena. It was a very
special pin given to someone who not only bent over backwards to help the rescue operation after the attack, but who also fought to provide medical treatment and financial aid years after when rescue workers started getting sick and hadn’t received their due. The pin was a gift to someone who didn’t bounce from one story to the next like a cable TV reporter trying to steal money and ratings. It was a gift to someone who hadn’t forgotten what happened and never would.
Lena passed back the pin and watched the senator carefully return it to his lapel.
“I’m going to ask you for a favor, Detective. And I already know that it’s something you won’t like.” He had that quizzical smile going again as he passed her his business card. “I’m spending more time here than I am in Washington,” he said. “If I can ever do anything for you, call me and I’ll try my best.”
“What’s the favor? How can I help?”
“The press is out there. And I want a picture of me and you standing together for my office. Ramira’s photographer would take that picture and send me a copy. But don’t think that I’m naive. Everybody else in that room will take the picture, too. And that’s why I said that you’re not going to like it, but I am.”
Lena thought it over. The senator raised an eyebrow, his warm smile becoming infectious. After a moment, she nodded.
5
Lena hustled down the stairwell at the coroner’s office, too anxious to wait for the elevator. When she hit the basement, the smell of disinfectant and decomposing flesh hit back. Wincing at the harsh odor, she rushed past the long line of dead bodies waiting against the left wall without looking at them.
She hadn’t been able to sleep last night, tossing and turning, and staring out the bedside window. She knew her anxiety came from the investigation being stuck in first gear. The heat from the sixth floor and the lack of evidence. Her inability to identify the victim or get past go. She couldn’t shake the frustration, and now she was feeding on it.
She stepped inside the changing room. Pulling the scrubs over her slacks, she grabbed a pair of booties and sat down on the bench. When the door swung open, she looked up and saw Art Madina pulling the mask away from his face.
