Good Morning, Killer ag-2

by April Smith

  Special Agent in Charge Robert Galloway, originally from New York, was an expert on organized crime who brought a rock-solid street savvy to the fluid complexities of LA. For a long time he sat up there on the seventeenth floor with his dead cigars and trademark turtlenecks, steering the field office through terrorist threats and internal scandals like a captain in a season of squalls, until his wife, an elite mountain climber, left him for another elite mountain climber, and he sank into a terrible depression.

  How do I know? I once saw him in his car, in the far reaches of the garage, sobbing.

  After a while he seemed to regain some balance, joked about taking “herbal supplements,” which I guess meant antidepressants, but still, he could be irritable, and irrational, and susceptible to scrutiny, more sensitive than ever about the Bureau “looking stupid” in the media, which is why he’d come up with this “new politics” idea. He also had a seventeen-year-old daughter devastated by the divorce who, rumor was, had been arrested DUI.

  I found him in the corner office with the soft carpeting and real furniture, behind an old-fashioned four-legged desk. A bookcase held his New York City horror show collection of Statues of Liberty, bound Playbills, NYPD mugs, a whip, a miniature guillotine, a human skull, a severed finger, possibly real, a dusty centennial quart of Guinness ale, a black wig and a replica of Poe’s cottage in the Bronx. The walls were taken up with celebrity photos: Galloway (a younger man) with the mayor, senator and Bobby Kennedy; Galloway on the tracks in front of a subway car, inspecting the remains of a jumper; signed cast photos from TV cop shows shot in New York; a plastic box containing yellowed memorabilia from the opening of Mickey Mantle’s restaurant, including a champagne glass with giddy lettering—Spavinaw, Okla! — and a matchbook signed by the legend himself.

  “Glad you could make it.” He looked at his watch, a chrome Rolex. “What’d you do, take the bus?”

  “Fog. It’s bad. Don’t go anyplace.”

  “Where do I have to go?” shrugged Galloway.

  Self-pity was now the norm. I learned to ignore it. If you attempted to commiserate about the state of his emotions, he would savage you.

  “Got an alert from HQ. It’s come to their attention about the situation in Santa Monica. High visibility, especially if it goes south. They wanted us to be aware that they got three hits on VICAP, which might link Juliana Meyer-Murphy to three other missing juveniles. In each of these cases — Georgetown; South Beach, Florida; and Austin, Texas — you have a teenage girl disappearing from a youth-oriented area like the Third Street Promenade.” I had become distracted by a young woman I had never seen before who was sitting in the visitor’s chair.

  “Ana Grey, meet Kelsey Owen.”

  She looked like part of Galloway’s quirky collection. Bureau folks wear suits. Black, brown, navy. Kelsey Owen went for ethnic — long, tiered Mexican skirts and oversized sweaters. Once, even a straw sun hat. She was late twenties, nice skin, long curly dark hair like a folksinger’s and just chunky enough to appear nonthreatening.

  We shook hands.

  “Kelsey is over at NSD,” Galloway explained. “But she wants to get into the Crimes Against Children Unit.”

  “You’re a new agent?”

  She nodded. “This is my second year. I just love it.”

  “Isn’t that great?” Galloway jabbed the unlit cigar. “Enthusiasm!”

  I gave him a sardonic flick of the eyes. Enthusiasm? What the hell did he think was going on over at the command post, twenty-four/seven?

  He gave me the printout from headquarters, including photographs of the other victims, aged fourteen to sixteen. They all resembled one another: dark, shoulder-length hair and smooth, hopeful faces. The others were still missing; only the girl from South Beach had been recovered alive.

  “Kelsey is a trained psychotherapist. I think we should pay more attention to the psychology of the offender.”

  “We do. It’s called criminal investigative analysis.”

  It used to be called profiling, but the term sounded too much like racial profiling, so they figured out a way to make it incomprehensible altogether. After completing several hundred hours of advanced instruction at Quantico, I was selected to be a profile coordinator. I learned how to analyze a suspect by age, profession, marital status, sexual history, style of attack, IQ, social adjustment, appearance and grooming habits and a host of other factors in order to come up with a hypothetical portrait. Profiling is not about whether the guy was potty-trained too early. It’s a working description that narrows the field.

  As soon as we had a couple of freaking facts, of course I was going to look at the psychology of the offender! I was groping for it now.

  “I’m talking the causes of why things go sour,” Galloway went on. “We don’t pay enough attention to what happens in relationships.”

  Relationships? This was not Galloway-speak. “Kelsey can provide some insights.”

  “I really want to do what you do,” Kelsey said.

  “I’ve been doing it ten years,” I replied darkly.

  “I hope to learn from you,” she swooned, “and not make the same mistakes you made.”

  Just the kind of insight I needed.

  Galloway tapped the unlit cigar in a clean ashtray. “What’s the status over there?”

  “You mean the Santa Monica kidnapping?”

  “No, the Lakers game. Jesus Christ, Ana, don’t give me a lot of shit.”

  Irritable.

  “All the mechanisms are in place but no new ransom calls. We’re developing two suspects: one is the mom’s ex-boyfriend, the other a white male seen with Juliana on the Promenade. With the information we have right now, we believe the suspect may be a drug dealer from Arizona, which doesn’t rule out the unsubs from the east—” “Is this a high-risk victim?” interrupted Kelsey Owen. “Is she known to use drugs or prostitute herself on the street?”

  I gritted my teeth. Why me?

  “No, she is not high-risk, and yes, we know all about the victimology. These are questions we have asked, and continue to ask, since Day One. Believe me, we are living with it night and day.” I realized from Galloway’s narrowing expression I had better put the brakes on my Inner Bitch.

  “The Santa Monica police are developing the lead on Arizona,” I said flatly and finally. “It’ll all be up on Rapid Start. Do you know how to access Rapid Start?”

  “I’ll find out,” Kelsey promised brightly.

  I gave her a worn-out smile; that’s what it’s like up here in the stratosphere.

  “I wanted you two to meet because it’s an interesting case and I thought you would get along,” Galloway intoned. “Sisters in crime.”

  I had stopped listening. I was thinking about a Subway sandwich and a bag of chips.

  “And on top of that, Ana is a natural to be a mentor.”

  “Listen,” Kelsey was saying, “it doesn’t have to be a formal thing—”

  “What doesn’t?”

  “—because I’m still officially on the national security squad, so you can copy me the material and we can have coffee whenever you—”

  I was prancing like a little kid who had to pee. Don’t do this to me!

  “This is really not a good time—”

  Galloway was mouthing the cigar thoughtfully. “You say Santa Monica is handling the possible link to Arizona?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want us to do it.”

  “Why?” My stomach tightened. “They’ve got a senior detective on it, very competent guy—”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Galloway replied. “Headquarters is going to want no doubt about who makes this case.”

  “What happened to the ‘new politics’?” I was riled. I was pissed. I did not want to have another conversation about this with Andrew. “I thought we were supposed to share.”

  “Sharing is good. As long as we get the bigger piece. You have a problem?”

  “I guess it’s been a while since I was in the sand
box.”

  The phone was ringing. Kelsey was giving me a sisterly shrug.

  “Yeah, Rick,” said Galloway, dismissing us both with a wave of the stogie. “What’ve you got?”

  The surveillance team had been in place. That night it was a pair of rookies, I don’t know their names. As usual there had been little movement on the tranquil street since the last of the dog walkers, around eight. Lights were on in the Meyer-Murphy home, where day and night had merged into what Willie John Black would call a “candlelight situation,” wonderfully descriptive, if you think about it, of a halftone state in which the present and future are equally without meaning or illumination.

  The first verbal report stated, “Someone is walking up the street.”

  This was transmitted to walkie-talkies inside the house and recording equipment in the Bureau and command center.

  “Walking slowly. Weaving. Possibly intoxicated.”

  Someone muttered, “Ten-four,” to let the guys in the car know somewhere in the city another human was listening.

  “I think it’s a female. Can’t tell in the fog.” More alert: “She’s heading up the path.”

  In reply, Eunice Shaw’s voice from inside the house was sharp. You could sense her bearing down since the cell phone incident.

  “I can see somebody out there,” she confirmed. “Who is it?”

  “Coming your way,” warned surveillance.

  “To the front door!”

  “Can’t see shit in this fog—”

  “Get out of the car,” she ordered, “right now!”

  And they were, in a heartbeat, because out of the heavy mist drifted a hollow, dirt-stained face with feral matted filthy hair — a crippled figure Eunice first made as a homeless alcoholic or some demented member of the kidnap outfit — until she came underneath the exterior lamp, and Eunice saw the T-shirt was hanging open like a vest, for it had been slit down the middle, and the torso had been wound with bloody gauze.

  “Oh sweet Jesus,” Eunice breathed and opened the door and drew the girl inside. “Don’t be afraid, Juliana. I’m Eunice Shaw with the FBI. We’ve been looking for you, baby. Your parents are waiting for you, right upstairs.” Juliana swayed, listless, lightweight, as if about to float off her feet. She was pale and shocky. For a moment Eunice froze with hands on her shoulders, holding her upright, and made eye contact over her lolling head with one of the stupefied young male agents who had skidded through the doorway and Eunice’s black eyes were pleading and accusatory and infuriated and without being told he radioed 911 while the other agent went scuffling up the stairs to stammer to the parents that their little girl was home.

  Eight

  The parents were like strangers, sitting on opposite sides of the hospital corridor. The minute you saw them your heart sank.

  Their anxious bickering had at least been a connection. Now, at this unimaginable moment, when they needed the comfort of rabbis and saints, these two could not even bring themselves to touch each other’s hand.

  He, wearing a shiny purple jacket that said Laurel West Academy, as if it were Juliana’s swim team practice instead of a rape exam at one in the morning, hauled himself up from the seat. In the harsh light I noticed how the jaw drifted slightly to one side, as if years ago someone had taken a good and accurate slug at him.

  “You all did a great job.”

  “I’m glad we could be of help.”

  She, back in control of her public self, had dressed in businesslike khakis with a blue sweater and spotless white tennis shoes, but looked, if it were possible, as if she had lost another ten pounds in the last twelve hours. Wordlessly, she put her arms around me, and I could feel the fragile shoulder bones.

  “It isn’t over,” Ross warned. “You’ve got to get the guy.”

  “Believe me, Mr. Murphy, that’s the plan.”

  “Who,” said his wife, eyes communicating her private torment, “do you think it was?”

  “I couldn’t speculate right now.”

  “But you’ll keep us informed?”

  “You’ll be informed.”

  “I just want to say—,” but Ross couldn’t say it. He ducked his head and swiped at his eyes. “If I acted badly, I didn’t mean to cause any trouble … I was just trying to get my daughter back.”

  I nodded, eyes stung with empathy. “It was a difficult time for everyone.”

  “If there’s anything we can do for you,” he began stalwartly, “on a personal level—”

  “No, no, no—” I may have blushed. “Please.”

  “I understand.” He put up a meaty hand as if he were a kingpin in the Russian mafia. The fluorescent lights glinted off his gold spectacles. “Just know it’s there.”

  What is? I wanted to say. The automatic doors blew open and Andrew came through on the hustle.

  Ross greeted him with some kind of white suburban power handshake and a dozen claps on the shoulder of his leather jacket.

  “She’s back, huh? She made it! She’s a survivor, that kid! I feel like I should be handing out cigars!”

  But there was a contradictory sadness behind Ross’s bravura. We all knew, standing there, the life of this family had been kicked off track and lay twisted and skewed like a toy train, smashed by the heel of someone who resented its ordered path around in a circle; the perfect miniature town inside.

  “Ana, they want you.”

  Ross: “What’s going on?”

  “Procedure,” Andrew explained. “They like having law enforcement in on the initial interview so the victim doesn’t have to go through the story twice. I do it all the time with rape victims, but Juliana requested a female.” I had an ungracious thought: Had he been trying to edge me out?

  “I’m glad Ana will be with her,” said Lynn. “My daughter’s never even been to a gynecologist.” Her voice faltered. “And for this to be her first examination …”

  “Listen,” said Ross, “we’re lucky she was only raped.”

  Andrew and I exchanged a look. The guy was at the beginning of a long road.

  “She did not sustain major injuries aside from the superficial cutting, but she has been sexually assaulted and brutalized,” Andrew stated emphatically. “We’ll find out to what extent in a couple of hours.”

  He had my respect. He was patient but firm, and despite his often-repeated credo Bullshit makes the world go round, he was not bullshitting here. I wondered how many parents, husbands, siblings and friends of rape victims he had made this same speech to, in this same corridor, over twenty years as a cop, and if the competence and authority that went from the leather soles of his work shoes firmly gripping the floor to the priestly intertwine of his fingers resting like a bowl held out toward the family had brought any comfort at all.

  “Detective? Can we talk?”

  We moved aside, and I took a deep breath and asked where he was on the Arizona investigation.

  “Just getting off the ground. Sent a bulletin to Phoenix, they’ll post it statewide. Why? Checking up on me?” he added, half kidding.

  “No.” I smiled, glad he could joke. “This is not my idea, okay? I fought for you. But the SAC wants the Bureau to take the Arizona connection from here. He wants all the marbles, and it’s his game.” I ran a hand through my hair. “I’m sorry. I hoped we never had to bring this up again.” Andrew shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to me,” he said tonelessly.

  I chose to believe him. “See you later?”

  “You bet.” He nodded toward the doors. “Be with Juliana. Go.”

  “How is she?”

  “One tough cookie.” Andrew put his fists in his pockets. “He tortured her, you know.”

  Juliana Meyer-Murphy, still wearing her own clothes, was sitting up beside a nurse-practitioner on a sofa in the Rape Treatment Center clinic at the Santa Monica — UCLA Medical Center. I expressed my joy and relief that she was safe, as we had been working very hard to get her back.

  Many things were working on me in the first moments I met Julian
a. Andrew’s caution not to identify with the victim had already gone by the wayside. She boasted none of the arrogance of her friend Stephanie Kent, but was, achingly, a child, whose first steps into the adult world had been slammed by a bully — not unlike my own experience, growing up without a father in a household dominated by my grandfather’s eccentric punishment of my mother and me, not by fists but by a kind of psychological enslavement to his authority, keeping us isolated in the one-eyed brick house on Pine Street. I still thought of the house that way: one of its two staring front windows was covered by a bush.

  “A lot of people care about you,” I told the girl.

  “That’s supposed to make a difference?” rasped Juliana in a strange, deep voice, like a person with emphysema.

  The shock of that voice made me want to make this girl believe that somebody would care for her wounds, unconditionally.

  “It does make a difference. It will.”

  The nurse introduced herself. Nancy Reicher, RN, NP, it said on her tag. She was petite, with eyebrows plucked in two thin arches. She wore a knee-length white lab coat with a stethoscope in the pocket, small gold earrings and a garnet ring. Her manner was practiced without being cold. She explained again to Juliana who I was and asked if it was okay if I was present at the medical interview.

  “Are you comfortable with that?”

  “All right, whatever.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Everything you can tell us will help to track, apprehend and prosecute the offender.”

  Juliana looked younger and less robust than in the enlarged school photograph that had been keeping watch over the command center. Here instead was a drawn, delicately featured girl whose quiet aliveness in this tranquil room struck me as one of nature’s most resounding miracles.

  And again, something hopeful: we were, at least, in a rape treatment center of the kind that did not always exist, where the revolutionary message was that the hurts you cannot see are sometimes the most devastating, but that even inside the deepest hurt is the promise held, like the easy abandon of the redtail hawks, of a gorgeous liberty.