“Excuse me?” she asked.
“It’s Latin. An old saying from Virgil.”
“Oh. Okay.” She turned back to her laptop.
Jarsdel felt a hot sting of embarrassment and went back to his table without another word. Once there, he kept his eyes down and nudged around a clot of rice with his fork. He could hear his pulse in his ears, something that only happened in moments of profound shame, and was about to leave when he heard the scraping of a chair against concrete.
“Sorry, hi.”
Jarsdel looked up from his plate to see the girl sitting across from him, arms folded. She’d packed up her computer, which now jutted from a knitted shoulder bag along with Common Errors. Jarsdel was amazed to see she was smiling.
“I was in the zone,” she said. “Wasn’t trying to be mean.”
“No, that’s fine,” said Jarsdel. “I shouldn’t have interrupted.”
“You’re allowed.” She held out her hand. “Becca.”
“Tully.” They shook, and he was startled at how cold her hand was. It must have shown on his face, because the girl made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh.
“I know. I have Raynaud’s. Once it starts getting cold, I have to wear gloves, or my hands start turning blue.”
“Oh, that sounds painful.”
“It sucks.”
He couldn’t think of anything else to say on the subject, so he pointed to her book. “Pretty much got that memorized. I love stuff like that—you know, like is it ‘chomping at the bit’ or ‘champing at the bit’? Or why is ‘twelve p.m.’ incorrect? Fascinating stuff.”
Becca nodded. “It’s ‘champing at the bit.’ And it can’t be post meridiem if it’s exactly meridiem. ‘Noon’ is preferred.”
Jarsdel grinned. He didn’t think he was handsome when he grinned, the way his top lip thinned out and made him look toothy, but he couldn’t help it.
She smiled back at him. “You’re a teacher or something, right?”
“Not too long ago. Really that obvious?”
“Well, you did get pretty excited over grammar. For some reason, I don’t think it would make most of the guys in here quite so giddy. And the glasses help.”
“They do,” Jarsdel agreed. “You know, when I was younger, even when I didn’t need glasses, I still wore clear lenses just so people would take me a little more seriously.”
“Boys are so cute when they’re insecure.” Something new appeared in Becca’s smile, something that caused a warm, familiar stirring in Jarsdel’s blood.
“Well, if that were true, I would’ve been on the cover of Tiger Beat.”
She laughed at that. This is going great, Jarsdel thought. He suddenly felt very free, very easy in his own skin. Any anxieties he’d had a few moments ago were fading if not gone altogether. It was remarkable how tenaciously high-school jitters could hang on to you if you let them. I was a pasty, awkward kid, yes, and everyone thought I’d become a teacher, which I did. But now I’m a sworn police officer, a homicide detective in the LA-goddamned-PD, and I put real murderers into real prisons. A month ago, I arrested a man who’d grabbed his girlfriend’s colicky one-year-old by the ankles and swung him headfirst into a kitchen countertop. Wonder what the wedgie squad at Poly would think of that?
“I see you here a lot,” he said. “And I have to say, I’m curious. Can I ask what you’re working on?” It was a harmless enough question, but Jarsdel would ruminate on the scene over the next few days and eventually decide this was the precise moment he’d swerved the conversation down the road to catastrophe.
Becca hesitated. “It’s hard to describe.”
“It’s okay. You just seem very dedicated, and—”
“No, I’m actually glad you asked. If you can’t describe your work to people, you don’t have much of a chance of getting it seen.”
“Makes sense.”
“Well, it’s basically a play about Los Angeles, but I never actually come right out and say it. It’s more like an alternate-universe version of LA. It’s a fantasy piece, but I’ve always thought, like, if you want to comment on something, you can do it much better through fantasy or augmented reality.”
Jarsdel thought about that. “You mean like how Animal Farm is an—”
“Animal Farm! Exactly. Or how Frankenstein is cautioning us to be careful in our pursuit of knowledge and science. I mean, she wrote that in 1818, and nobody listens, and the next century, we’ve got A-bombs.”
“Hmm,” said Jarsdel, “it’s interesting you mention that. You know, that’s actually a very common misinterpretation.”
“What do you mean?”
“The idea that Shelley’s warning us of the dangers of science run amok. It feels right, but it’s facile—really more of a backward projection of our own notions. And I think probably also a confusion between the book and the 1931 film. In that one, there’s certainly the theme of ‘don’t tamper in God’s domain.’ But that was shot just a little after World War I, so it makes sense that there’s a sense of anxiety about what science is up to. But Shelley’s writing in a time where the concept of science as this runaway train simply isn’t on the radar. There’s no—”
“But that’s what I mean,” Becca said. “She predicted all that. She knew even then where it was all leading.”
Jarsdel shifted in his seat. “That’s…uh…I’m sorry. That’s just not what she was talking about. Frankenstein is about what a god or a demiurge owes its creation—what responsibilities it has to the life it summons and ultimately whether it has the right to create life at all. The monster is built and animated, but he had no choice in the matter, and now he suffers. It’s Miltonic. Just look at the epigraph from the 1818 edition. It’s right from Paradise Lost: ‘Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay / To mould me man?’ The science aspect of the book is actually quite vague, no more than a device for telling the story.”
Becca’s smile flattened into a taught line. “Okay, I’m pretty sure I know what I’m talking about. I have a master’s in ethics and applied philosophy, and that was my thesis.”
Jarsdel was amazed. “Your thesis was on the ethics of science in Frankenstein?”
“In popular literature, but yes, I spent a whole chapter on Frankenstein.”
“And your professor signed off on that?”
Becca gave her head a quick little shake, as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. A strand of hair snagged in the corner of her mouth, and she flicked it away. “What are you saying exactly?”
“I’m sorry,” said Jarsdel. “I guess I think the problem with a lot of advanced degrees these days is that the professors don’t really push their students. The college cashes its tuition check, and the whole process gets kind of rubber-stamped along the way.” He hurried to amend his statement. “I’m not saying that’s what happened here. Not at all. I…”
Becca looked at him, stunned.
“Let me clarify,” Jarsdel went on. “One of the reasons I quit teaching is that I actually got calls and emails from parents. And I’m talking about college kids here. Parents complaining that their kids are under stress, that they really didn’t deserve whatever grade they got, and so on. Now of course, I’m not obligated to respond to these idiots. In fact, FERPA makes it illegal for me to comment on a student’s academic standing. But what do you suppose happens? Those same parents then contact my department head, and before I know it, I’m getting the talk—ease up on this and that, reconsider my rubric—which is all basically just a way of telling me to lower my standards so everyone can be a winner.”
He tried to stop himself but was astonished to find that he couldn’t. His harangue had taken on a life of its own. “We’ve actually gotten to the point that parents are bailing their adult children out of schoolwork. It’s crazy. And I think in general, there’s this culture of entitlement that’s poisoned acade
mics, and not just at the undergraduate level. People figure they paid for a degree, and that ought to take them ninety percent of the way there, and that’s why we end up with these bloodless, jejune theses that contribute nothing to the overall conversation, to the progress of analytical thought.”
By that time, Jarsdel had buried himself so deeply that there was no coming back. All the same, that last sentence was the concrete cap on the gravesite, the one whose marker might have read Tully & Becca, 7:54 to 8:01 p.m.
She stood and gathered her things. Jarsdel, equally disgusted and amazed by his performance, watched her do this with mute resignation. Becca slung the knitted bag over her shoulder and left the food court but not without framing a middle finger in the center of her departing back.
Jarsdel nodded. It had been well-deserved.
* * *
He wandered the marketplace, stopping to buy a postcard of Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford, then again at Littlejohn’s for a pound of English toffee. He considered walking around the Grove. Its nightclubs, movie theater, and restaurants always attracted huge crowds, and Jarsdel could lose himself in them for a while. But after the mellow cool of the Farmers Market, Jarsdel decided the Grove’s newer, slicker vibe wasn’t what he was looking for. He also felt he’d polluted his sanctuary, violated the trust of Team Loneliness, and was no longer welcome.
He went back across Third and let himself into the Park La Brea complex. When he made it to his apartment, the pleasant drunk he’d been building was beginning to wear off. He still had plenty of wine left and poured another glass before corking the bottle and putting it in the fridge. He opened the patio door for some air and ended the evening with a documentary about the Battle of Verdun.
It was interesting enough to keep Jarsdel up another hour, but his body’s demands for rest soon won out. The last image he glimpsed before slipping into sleep was of a nameless French soldier, one of the first men to fall before the modern flamethrower. The photo was over a century old, the sepia film striped with scratches, and a blackened Adrian helmet lay near the body. But otherwise it was him, his John Doe, and its expression of pure, agonized terror followed Jarsdel into his dreams, where even the dead could scream.
Chapter 6
Jarsdel was having an early lunch at his desk when Ipgreve called.
“Tried the last trick I could think of to get those prints from the John Doe,” said the medical examiner. “Cut the skin off the hands and basically put ’em on like gloves.”
Jarsdel had a bite of Greek salad halfway to his mouth. A greasy slice of gyro meat quivered on the end of his fork.
“Thought with some structure back in them, we might be able to roll some decent prints,” Ipgreve went on. “Forget about it. Collagen’s completely cooked out. Skin just fell apart.”
Jarsdel put down his fork. “Okay,” he said, “what about the DNA?”
“Internal organs are too badly damaged to get a reliable sample, but it doesn’t matter. Sometimes you’ll get a car fire, and those can burn hot enough to make a guy basically into charcoal, but I can still snag a DNA profile. Pretty neat, really. Just takes a little more work, which is why I didn’t go for it right away. You dig some pulp out from one of the molars. Even in extreme temperatures, the molars preserve the genetic markers.”
“What’s our timeline on results?”
“Three weeks at the least,” said Ipgreve.
“And there’s no way to speed that up, I’m assuming.”
“Not unless you got a degree in biochemistry.”
Jarsdel thanked Ipgreve and hung up. He gave his food one last look but decided he wasn’t hungry anymore and pushed it into the trash. Probably for the best. He didn’t think he’d exercised once since he had become a detective.
He looked across at Morales, who was poring over his day planner. Jarsdel opened his mouth to speak, but the other man cut him off.
“No. No missing-persons reports fitting our guy.”
“No adult white male of average height?”
“Not lately. Only white dude gone missing is another costumed character. The Riddler this time, but he was over six feet, too tall to be Señor Caliente.”
“You sure that’s the only one?” said Jarsdel. “Did you call?”
Morales sighed and looked up. “Jesus Christ, Prof. Sergeant Ramsdell’s gonna let us know if anyone remotely like our guy gets called in. Hasn’t even been twenty-four hours. Relax.” He went back to looking at his day planner. “Gotta fucking testify this afternoon. Twice. And I get a nice two-hour break in between to hang around the goddamn courthouse.”
The cases Morales had to testify for had been in the works for over a year, before they’d partnered. One was a fatal stabbing in a nightclub at Hollywood and Edgemont, and the other was a strong-arm robbery outside a liquor store on Western. The victim had survived but had been beaten so badly by the pair of assailants that the DA was going for attempted murder.
Jarsdel didn’t mind testifying. After spending so many years lecturing college students, he secretly missed the opportunity to speak in public. He was good at it, comfortable and confident on the stand, and the city prosecutors loved him. When he’d been promoted to detective, he had received a congratulatory note from the district attorney herself. It was, in many ways, his favorite part of the job, but he decided not to share that with Morales.
He checked the time and saw it was almost noon. He rose from his chair. “You coming?”
Morales grunted and pushed himself up, grimacing as his weight settled onto his legs. They crossed the squad room and stopped outside the largest office in the station. The blinds were lowered but not drawn, and Jarsdel could see three men in animated conversation. One was Lieutenant Gavin, and Jarsdel recognized the man to his right as Councilman Ken Peyser. Behind the desk sat Captain Lowell Sturdivant, the division’s commanding officer. He was a tall man and wore a tight, silver crew cut. His hands were large, the knuckles hairy, marble-sized knobs, but the fingers that branched from them were oddly elegant, even delicate. He glanced through the window and, noticing Morales and Jarsdel, waved them in.
Peyser stood and shook the two detectives’ hands. “Have a seat,” he said, as if it were his office.
“We’ve just been catching Ken up on things,” said Sturdivant once everyone was seated. “Anything new to share?”
“No luck on the prints,” said Jarsdel. “But Dr. Ipgreve should have a DNA profile for us in about three weeks.”
Peyser sighed and shook his head. “I’ve got some very freaked-out citizens in my district.”
“I thought we had that contained,” said Gavin. “Victim’s a white male, so we rule out any racial motives.”
“People aren’t stupid,” said Peyser with the authority of someone laying out a great truth. “They know we’re holding something back.”
“Of course we’re holding something back,” said Sturdivant. “I’m not going to get in front of four million Angelenos and tell them our victim was cooked alive.”
“But if it gets out ahead of us, we’re in real trouble,” said Peyser. “I say we put out a public appeal, give as many details as we can spare.”
“Such as?” said Gavin.
“Manner of death,” began Peyser, then put up a hand when he saw Sturdivant about to argue. “Not everything. Just enough to get the gore hounds to stop sniffing around. Otherwise, it begs the question as to why we’re being so guarded.”
Morales snorted, then rubbed his nose. The men stopped to look at him. “Allergies,” he said. “Sorry.”
Peyser went on. “We say the guy died from exposure to heat and was then moved. Nothing about an oven or anything, because even between us, that’s still speculation. We don’t even need to say it’s necessarily murder.”
“Oh, come on, Ken,” said Sturdivant.
“Well, who knows? Could’ve been an in
surance scam gone wrong. Survivors panicked and dumped the body. My point is we still don’t know what we’re dealing with. We’re speaking to the public openly and honestly and saying hey, we need your help. Aboveboard’s the way to go on this.”
Sturdivant turned to Jarsdel. “If we engage the public, what can we hold back?”
“Not very much, sir,” said Jarsdel. “I suppose the way the body was posed, with its head at the base of the statue. And of course the killer would have to be able to explain—to the satisfaction of our ME—how the body ended up the way it did.”
“The coin,” said Morales.
“Right. The coin,” agreed Jarsdel.
“What coin?” asked Peyser.
“The body was found with a quarter glued to its right palm.”
“Glued?”
Jarsdel nodded. “1996. Painted red. It’s probably our best piece of evidence, even though there isn’t much it can tell us. No prints, and the glue was badly damaged by the solvent when we finally got it off. Lab thinks it’s just common superglue anyway—no method of tracing it. Same deal with the paint.”
“Okay,” said Gavin. “So we make an official statement. But I want it cleared with Chief Comsky first. HH2 is her baby, and I’m not about to do anything to piss her off.”
“That’s fair,” said Sturdivant. “Ken? Anything else?”
“No. I really appreciate you guys working with me on this. It’ll ease a lot of people’s minds if they feel they’re being kept in the loop.”
Sturdivant raised his strange, willowy hands. “That’s it, then. Detective Jarsdel, could you hang back a minute?” He waited until the others left and the two of them were alone.
“How’s it coming?” asked the captain.
“Pretty good, I think. Sir.”
“Pretty good, huh? Big responsibility, this case.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sturdivant plucked a letter opener from a desk caddy and began turning it over in his hands. “I don’t think it’s any secret what Lieutenant Gavin thinks of HH2. He’s a hell of a cop but old-fashioned. Lot like me, actually. I’d be lying if I said I thought the division needed a new homicide squad, let alone one with such a wonky makeup. You really have a PhD in history?”
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