Good Morning, Killer ag-2

by April Smith

  FORRESTER: She’s lying, she’s a liar, she is out to get me and I have no idea why.

  COUNTY: Really? I think that statement should be reversed because, Mrs. Forrester, aren’t you the one who told the investigating officers Ana Grey shot Andrew Berringer? Aren’t you the one who first pointed the finger at Ana Grey?

  FORRESTER: They asked if I had any thoughts on the subject.

  COUNTY: You had “thoughts.”

  FORRESTER: Yes, I did.

  COUNTY: But no facts.

  FORRESTER: I knew.

  COUNTY: Were you there at the time of the shooting?

  FORRESTER: No.

  COUNTY: Did you have any direct knowledge of the shooting?

  FORRESTER: No, I didn’t.

  COUNTY: Then you couldn’t know. You guessed, is that right? You conjectured. You wished. You were jealous. You wanted revenge because this big strapping handsome detective was finished with you, and his current squeeze was Ana Grey. You told the police not out of knowledge but spite, is that correct?

  RAUCH: I’m sorry, we have to stop—

  COUNTY: That doesn’t make you a very objective source about Special Agent Grey’s behavior, does it?

  JUDGE: I think this witness has had enough, Mr. County.

  We stood in the corridor. The upturned car was gone, and traffic was jammed up as usual in the late afternoon. Devon’s cell kept ringing and he kept ignoring it. The two other attorneys were talking on their phones down the hall.

  “The prosecution’s case was overwhelming,” I said. “The judge did not buy ours.”

  “Don’t worry, the jury will. This was just practice.”

  “Practice!”

  “We know a lot more about their witnesses. We know how Andrew comes across in the courtroom—”

  One of the young attorneys interrupted in a hurry. “Devon? Breaking news.”

  “What’s up?”

  “They found a body.”

  I almost laughed. This, after all, was the criminal defense attorney’s gruesome stock and trade. Bodies here, bodies there. Must mean another client!

  “Teenage girl,” he was saying, “in a park in Mar Vista. The crime scene guy is saying sexual assault.”

  The door to the courtroom opened slowly, and Judge McIntyre and his twin came out and our little group stepped back.

  “Good evening, Judge,” said Devon, and his associates echoed the courtesy.

  “Good evening,” said the judge. Dressed in street clothes now, he looked like any number of anonymous older men who wear hats and go about their business with a certain air, a burden of knowledge, that says they may have had experiences that belong to a different time and place, but they have understood those experiences in a way that we, still in the midst of life, have not.

  Slowly, Judge McIntyre led his twin by the hand. His brother, it was now apparent from the lopsided shuffle and darting eyes, was mentally retarded and needed guidance through the world.

  Twenty-two

  The river oaks had been planted in two rows, shading a dirt road that still ran along the far reaches of the park. Their slender trunks all tilted in the same direction, and the shape of their foliage was vertical and tall; as if once upon a time a family of gnomes fleeing an evil wind had become frozen in flight, and their stubby legs had been turned into tree trunks and their tangled masses of hair into leaves whooshing fearfully up.

  It was spooky, this dark grove at the edge of the playing fields, out near an old white stucco wall long covered with tents of ivy. Blown leaves and granular red dirt had accumulated near the foot of the wall, forming a dry mulch thick enough to dig through, unlike the hard-packed earth of the baseball diamond whose backstop sat at the edge of the oak shadow.

  A six-year-old boy chasing a foul ball had discovered the victim between the trees and the wall. In this narrow space, the killer could have worked unobserved all night. When the crime scene folks carted the leaves away, shovel marks were visible like uniform bites around the edge of the grave. The killer was meticulous. He had come prepared — yet the grave was shallow, as if meant to be discovered. This showed ambivalence about the death. The clothed body was curled on its side in a green trash bag that did not quite reach over the head, so long thick brown hair extruded in a bunch. The hair was the oddity that caught the boy’s attention, visible through the leaves. He had thought it was the tail of a dead animal, encrusted with flies and blood.

  Her name was Arlene Harounian, sixteen years old. From the condition of the body the coroner estimated she had been dead four days. She lived in a worn-down working-class city called Inglewood, about six miles from the park, an hour bus ride and a world away from Laurel West Academy and the Third Street Promenade. The father reported her missing, and a detective, already working three homicides, had been assigned to the case. Arlene had been especially beautiful, with dark tanned skin that added to her exotic look, a wide smile and confident, infectious energy. She was a popular honor student with a 4.0 grade-point average, who also played basketball and ran track, described by friends as “independent” and “a person who knew what she wanted, which was to go to college and make a difference.” Newspaper photos showed grief-stricken classmates hugging one another on the steps of the high school. Arlene had been the kind of kid who could recharge a cynical, burned-out teacher just by walking into the room.

  Everyone on my legal team had the same thought: What if Arlene Harounian were another victim of Ray Brennan? Although there was no obvious link between them, she and Juliana Meyer-Murphy were similar in age and appearance, and the coroner was talking sexual assault. If the two were connected, her death could yield important facts that might have bearing on the charges against me. I was hoping it was Brennan just so we could nail him. That is the warped agony of the serial crimes investigator: sometimes the only way to move forward is for the offender to do it again.

  While Devon’s office pursued their sources, I pounded Jason Ripley with e-mails and phone messages until finally he agreed to meet in the park where the body had been found.

  It was a Saturday, ten days after the crime scene had been released, which meant the tennis courts were busy and slow-pitch softball games back in play. Jason could have been another gangly new dad coming through the crowded picnic area in which every table held a different multiethnic birthday party, scrawny ficus trees enveloped by a haze of smoking hamburgers and roasting skewers of yakitori and chorizo.

  When we made eye contact, instead of breaking into the usual shy-but-eager grin, Jason ducked his head deeper under the bill of his cap.

  “How’s it going?” he asked somberly.

  “It’s going.”

  “Sorry for your troubles.”

  I nodded. He put a running shoe up on the seat of the picnic table, and we stood there awkwardly. What I really wanted was a big soft hug.

  “So,” rubbing his farmer’s freckled hands together, “how can I help?”

  I squinted over the acres of playing fields to the small, twisted procession of river oaks and what had been hidden there, diagonally across from tables full of toddlers reaching eagerly for birthday cake.

  “Let’s take a walk.”

  Jason glanced at the site uneasily. “I’ve got to get back to the office, got a ton of three-oh-twos.”

  “Sure,” I said, surprised to feel how much his terseness stung. “What are we getting from the lab?”

  “In terms of what?”

  “Cause of death?”

  “Haven’t gotten the autopsy results.”

  “Why not?”

  “Backed up, as usual.”

  “Give me a break, it’s a high-profile case.”

  “All I can tell you is what they tell me.”

  “I like it,” nodding with mock approval. “Where did you learn to put on the spin?”

  Jason reddened.

  “Okay, then, what’s the buzz? No reason we can’t gossip, talk about what you’re hearing in the halls.”

  “
The buzz is sexual assault.”

  “Any links to Brennan?”

  “Nothing confirmed.”

  “If there were,” I asked with a tight smile, “would you tell me?”

  “Ana, you know, I’m kind of in a tough position here.”

  “Where? Who’s listening?”

  An ice cream truck had backed into the picnic area piping idiotic circus music over and over.

  “I just can’t …” His lips curled in against his teeth, a sign of refusal if there ever was one. “I just …”

  “You feel disloyal because you’re talking to me? About our own case?”

  “It’s not exactly your case,” he muttered, “or mine, really, anymore—”

  “I’m only on suspension.”

  “But if you go to trial …”

  “If I go to trial that’s another deal, but meanwhile, girls are getting murdered and what the hell is the Bureau doing about it? That’s what I want to know. What is the status? Because I learned from experience that when the lead agent doesn’t keep the pressure on, the whole thing evaporates. So is anyone still tracking Brennan? Is anyone going to put this case next to the Santa Monica kidnapping and the hits we got in VICAP — Washington, Florida and Texas — or, when there’s another sexually assaulted body of a teenage girl, am I going to spend the rest of my life pacing around Mike Donnato’s kitchen like some demented bride of Frankenstein, saying, I told you so?” Jason laughed. “You’re a real character, you know that?”

  “It’s not about me, it’s about the Bureau. You want to be loyal to the Bureau, help me keep working this case, because all indications are this guy is into a cycle of repeating.”

  “We don’t even know if it’s Brennan,” Jason began.

  I found myself rubbing my face all over with my fingertips, like putting on cold cream or taking off a mask.

  “So why did you come here? To tell me you can’t tell me anything?”

  “I came because I like you,” he blurted. Then, “I don’t know what went on with you and your boyfriend — I’m just hoping it all works out for you in the end.”

  “And …?”

  “And … nothing.”

  He was leaning one forearm on the bent knee that was up on the table, looking at me sideways, trying to hide behind the green sunglasses.

  I waited.

  “They want you to back off,” he said finally. “They want you to go away. You shot a cop, no matter what the circumstances.” He added quickly, “You’re a problem, and they want it gone.”

  “Is this a message from Rick?”

  “I’m just trying to explain why I can’t share information. I know you care a thousand percent, but until your court case is resolved — and believe me, everyone is pulling for you — it’s just too political.”

  The guise was gone, as Jason seemed to vent on behalf of the whole field office. “We’ve got so much shit coming down. Bank robberies are up, the spy scandal, the ‘alleged terrorist’ who died in custody, the ‘misplaced’ assault rifles — how could that happen? Hackers busting into our secure files. Everywhere you look, the Bureau is taking another hit.” “Can we get away from this clown music?” I said of the ice cream truck. “It’s driving me nuts.”

  The young agent straightened up. “I’ve got to get back to the office.”

  I put my bag on my shoulder.

  “What about Brennan?”

  “Brennan is over,” Jason said firmly. “We recovered the victim of the Santa Monica kidnapping,” holding up a hand to stop my protest. “That was our job. We did our job. If the locals want our cooperation, cool, but it’s their homicide. That’s how the brass sees it.” “How do you see it?”

  Jason shrugged. “I feel for you. I feel for the girl. It’s hard.”

  “You know, we’re about ten blocks from Brennan’s apartment,” I said after a little while. “I drove through the neighborhood on the way over. Strange mix. You’ve got the old abandoned houses, the apartment buildings … I’d love to talk to Mrs. Santos after this,” nodding toward the oak trees. “See how safe she feels right now for Roxy.” Jason’s foot thumped, but he did not take the bait. He was changing. I had actually watched him change, that was the amazing thing, like all the new agents who come in looking like Clark Kent until they realize all those other Clark Kents are getting in the way. The ginger-haired little boy had grown up.

  “Remember what we talked about? Proving yourself?” I asked. “It’s hard these days, even knowing how. What’s important? What’s political? Are you the good son who’s loyal to the organization, or do you go out on a limb for what you believe? Don’t worry about it, Jason. Either way, you’ve got a great career ahead of you. Two different paths, is all.” “That’s not at all a fair evaluation,” he called after me.

  I walked toward the parking lot, past an empty swimming pool and a brand-new roller-hockey rink. It must have been a youth league tournament because the bleachers were filled with cheering parents on their feet with fervor and excitement; the high protective mesh strung with red, white and blue balloons.

  Is this Dr. Arnie, the mad magician of Fullerton? Hi! It’s Ana Grey!”

  I was lounging at the white umbrella table in Mike Donnato’s backyard, sipping a mint-flavored mojito, which I had fashioned from a recipe in the LA Times, the morning sun just creeping across the deck.

  Hip, all right.

  “Ana,” said the lab director, “I’ve been meaning to get back to you.”

  “No problemo. I know you’re under it.”

  “Hello? Am I talking to the real Ana Grey, or is this a clone? The nice clone, who doesn’t put your testicles in the wringer the minute you don’t have an answer in twenty-four seconds?” “Am I really that bad?”

  “On a good day. On a bad day, you don’t want to know from it.”

  “Speak to me of shoe prints.”

  “Don’t you love shoe prints?”

  “I do,” wondering if they were drinking mojitos over at the crime lab, too. Maybe everybody was. The entire Southland. Starting around breakfast. They contain lime juice, a good source of vitamin C. “Did you recover any shoe prints from the homicide in Mar Vista?” “Of course we got shoe prints. What do you think, we’re incompetent?”

  “What size?”

  He clicked computer keys. “Ten.”

  “Like Ray Brennan.”

  “Your guy, Brennan?”

  I could hear the surprise. “Is it a match?”

  More anxious clicks. “The problem is, the outsoles are different and we couldn’t get the wear characteristics off the impression on the skin of that first rape victim. It was a herringbone pattern from a tennis shoe we recovered in the park.” “But the same size?”

  “Correct. And, obviously, he asphyxiated her, wasn’t that the ritual?”

  “He did? The new victim?”

  “Where have you been?”

  “Out of town.”

  I had called Dr. Arnie on the odds that news of my preliminary hearing situation had not yet reached Fullerton. Propellerheads live in a parallel universe from ours; parallel to most.

  “We sent a full report to the Bureau last week.”

  “Last week?”

  “Sometimes we do our job.”

  Jason’s look came back to me, the averted eyes behind the green lenses.

  “But you’re not prepared to say it’s Brennan?”

  “Not conclusively. Look, I’m sure it’s all up on Rapid Start.”

  “I’m not in the office.”

  “Want me to fax our report to you?”

  “You’re an angel.”

  I placed the glass with the spent mint leaves in the water and watched it float.

  Three hundred tiny lights from three hundred candles grew brighter as the sun sank behind the gymnasium building. The memorial service of Arlene Harounian was held late on a cloudy afternoon in the football field of the high school, where a stage had been outfitted with microphones and floral arrangements. The
stage was big enough to hold the school orchestra, which played with heartbreaking finesse. The kids were good. They had accomplished something.

  Silently they stood and carried their instruments off and the madrigal singers filed to the microphones, like everyone else wearing ordinary teenage grunge, boot-cut jeans and wind pants and baggies and Tshirts, underdressed for the gathering chill. It had been sunny in the morning. The few dozen grown-ups there, old enough to have read the weather report, came wrapped in scarves and winter coats.

  The singers lofted into “Ave Maria,” and I began rooting around in the pockets of my leather jacket for tissues. Man, why was I there? To tap into that spring of grief that ran underground, seemingly always just beneath my feet? There must be a river of sadness below the pavement of our cities. One after the other, for at least the past hour, friends and teachers had stood at the podium and universally described Arlene Harounian as a girl with unusual promise, whose smile “lit up the world,” who “wanted you to feel better.” White doves were released and her basketball jersey retired. The team showed it to us from the stage, horribly laid out flat inside a frame.

  Her parents sat on folding chairs with the other siblings and did not speak. The father had a wild head of madly blowing black hair and big teeth that snapped shut like a nutcracker into a stupefied smile. The littlest sister read a poem Arlene had written in seventh grade called “I Am,” which they printed in the program: “I am purple sunsets / I am the sick child who wonders why / I am a bell / I am a big sister who sometimes wants to be a little baby / I am a leaf …”

  A history teacher called for the study of nonviolence, a boy played a keyboard solo. Two girls holding each other for support took turns recounting how fine-looking Arlene was, but how practical about her gifts. She had determined to become a model in order to pay for college. They wanted to be models, too, but she was the one who actually went out and had a portfolio made. It was dark by then. The little paper cups on the end of the candles, which sheltered the flames from the wind, glowed in the evening like homespun orange lamps. My fingers were caked with melted wax from turning the candle to keep it alive. Here and there the cups would catch on fire and be stomped out. Nobody giggled. A screen had been raised, and someone clicked a laptop, and we were watching a montage of slides and rap songs that told us all about Arlene Harounian’s life, from a dark-haired tyke on a bicycle to a confident young woman in a lacy cutoff top holding on to a tree and arching her back, but whose look into the camera said, I’m in charge, not you.