Metcalf walked to the door and turned: "You people are looking at lawsuits on your dead deputy. Some of those neighbors are probably also gonna file. You turned that block into a fire zone. I sympathize, but it's not our problem."
"You turned it into the fire zone," Salazar said. "Your guys fired the hot gas. The L. A. County Supervisors are holding hearings, not only into the death of a Mexican-American sheriff, who looks like he was just sent in there and wasted, but into the entire behavior of the Justice Department on cross-jurisdictional matters."
"We're not gonna be scapegoats," Cagel said. "In case you haven't read your own county codes, an incident commander is responsible for everything that flows down from his scene. Your guy Matthews was in charge, so he's wearing the hat." He threw the LASD Manual onto Tony's desk. "Section thirty-one, paragraph eighteen. Great reading." He turned, and both feds walked out of the office.
"You've got to get this investigation done and a report written in less than two days," Tony said to me.
"I want a deputy on it with you," Messenger said.
"I agree," Salazar added.
"Nothing doin'," Mayor Mac replied. "I want only LAPD. They've got no stake in it. No axe to grind. Enrique, you know better than anybody what the press will do if this looks like a cover-up. We need an independent finding."
"We'll get right on it, sir," Alexa said, and led me out of the office.
Moments later we were standing in the hall.
"Alexa, I'm hardly uninvolved," I said. "I got into a fistfight with that SRT weapons team. There're already rumors about it circulating in the department."
"Shane, I know it's not perfect, but I need you, okay? Something tells me this isn't over yet. Not by a long shot."
Boy, was she ever right about that.
Chapter 9
FOOTBALL
It was 10 p. M., and I had been reading crime scene reports for three hours. Alexa was inside going over the ATF shooting review. I needed to get my mind off the Hidden Ranch mess for a while, so I took a break and got together with Chooch. We sat in the backyard talking football.
"I'm not hearing from as many coaches as I thought I would. We're already in our second game, and I'm just standing on the sidelines with a clipboard. I'm gonna lose the chance for a scholarship," Chooch complained. He was sitting next to me on the patio under a quarter moon.
The narrow Venice canals were picturesque, the arched bridges and shimmering water tinged silver in the pale moonlight. Venice was a haven for nonconformists and throwback hippies, and I could hear Led Zeppelin leaking from one of the houses on Grand Canal.
Chooch started banging on his cast with the rubber tip of his right crutch, the injured foot his new mortal enemy.
"C'mon. You go back to the doc in a week. Maybe he'll take the cast off. You've still got a chance to get into the last few games, as well as the CIF playoffs."
"College recruiting trips are in December. I'm screwed, Dad."
"You just got another call from Coach Paterno."
"Yeah, I know."
"He saw your video from last year's games. He still seems interested."
"Penn State wants to move me to defensive-back," he said sadly. "I wanta be a quarterback. I know the position."
"You got four recruiting letters. You're gonna have coaches' visits from Arizona, Oregon, Tulane, and Miami of Ohio. The SMU scout wants to talk to you when he comes through next month."
"Dad, I'm not playing. They're not gonna give a full ride to some guy holding a clipboard."
"They understand injuries, son."
"No they don't. I'm missing almost a full year of experience. They're gonna think I'm just some green, two-year high school player. I'll probably do better going to a junior college, where I could at least start as a freshman, then transfer to a D-one school my junior year."
"Chooch-life isn't just about football. What's important is your education."
He sat quietly, looking at his offending foot. He was really in the dumps.
"I had an idea the other day. You know Emo coached a Pop Warner team? The Rams, I think."
"Yeah, you told me." "With him gone, they're probably looking for a new head coach."
He didn't say anything.
"Sonny Lopez is coaching defensive linemen and linebackers. They need someone who knows how to run a Veer Offense."
"I don't know anything about a Veer. We run a Wing-T."
"Not much difference. They're both option offenses."
"There's a lot of difference, Dad."
"Okay, but you know fundamentals. You could teach the quarterbacks the reason for a three-step drop as opposed to five-how to do defensive reads, or look off a defender, stuff like that."
"I can't coach a buncha twelve-year-old kids. What good is that gonna do me?"
"This was Emo's team. You were his friend. He cared about these boys. Sometimes you gotta do things for other reasons than just, 'What's in it for me.' "
Chooch sat quietly for a long minute.
"Hey, I don't even know if I can get you the gig. I didn't want to ask Sonny to float the idea past the league if you were gonna say no. But it might get your spirits up, give you something else to focus on."
He was still glowering at his foot.
"Son, most of the mistakes I've made in my life, I made because I've been a loner. I started out an orphan, and it's been hard for me to let my guard down, invest in other people."
He still wasn't looking at me.
"You and Alexa have helped me understand that life is about more than just survival, but I don't always share my feelings, and there are times when I feel so desperate and alone I don't think I can stand it. Sometimes I'm not always the best partner, husband, or dad, because some part of me is always holding back. I don't want you to be like that. It's important that you learn how to give parts of yourself to others without wanting something in return."
He didn't speak, but he had a puzzled look on his face.
"Give it some time. Talk it over with your mom and Delfina. Think about it for a day. Will you at least do that?"
Yeah, sure," he said. Then he got up, grabbed his other crutch, and lumbered back into the house.
I rubbed my eyes. I felt I hadn't said it right. Then I went back to the shooting reviews. But it took me a while to get into it.
I had Vincent Smiley's Arcadia P. D. application, which was dated June 15, 2000. I'd already read it twice, now I looked again at the same vacant picture the Times had used. It was clipped to the top of the form. There wasn't much in his police application that helped. He went to middle school in Glendale. There was nothing listed for high school, except a note that said he had done home schooling from grades ten to twelve. He got his GED in '95, then two years of junior college at Glendale Community. His mother and father died in a car wreck in '95. I read a short essay that was attached, where he detailed his reasons for wanting to be a police officer. It was filled with the kind of vacuous nonsense that beauty contestants utter. I want to be a policeman to help people and foster peace among diverse segments of society. ZZZZZ.
An hour later, Alexa came out and handed me a cold beer. She plopped down in the chair Chooch had vacated, and we clinked bottles.
"Where you gonna start?" she asked.
"Out at the crime scene. Hidden Ranch Road, first thing in the morning."
"Shane, far be it from me to tell you how to do your job…"
"But?"
"But the guy is dead. Smiley is gone. His DNA is patched and matched. What's the point of starting out there? The neighbors have been interviewed. There's nothing much in their statements, except he acted like his elevator got stuck between floors and he was storing illegal weapons in his garage. We already know all that."
"I always start with the inciting incident, then work out from there. That's the way I was trained to do it."
"Except, we only have two days. Maybe you should take a shortcut."
"No shortcuts in a thorough investigat
ion, babe. You know that."
"But…"
"You can always get another detective," I said, and sipped my beer, looking out at the water. "Okay with me, if that's what you decide."
"Nope. Can't get out of it that easy. You're my guy. Do it your way. Now take me to bed and give me a party."
"Thought you'd never ask."
Chapter 10
ROTTWEILER
The next morning I drove out to Hidden Ranch. On the way I kept thinking about the incident reports I'd read the previous night.
At the beginning of every investigation I start by looking for coincidences and inconsistencies. In police work, you quickly learn it's never wise to trust a coincidence, because coincidences are often caused by criminal lies or mistakes. Inconsistencies occur when two people have conflicting opinions about a shared event, and there is often a lie or a misunderstanding at its core. In both of these circumstances it is generally profitable for an investigator to take a closer look.
After reading the deputies' statements, it seemed that almost all the sheriffs at the scene agreed that Vincent Smiley was a suicide, that he had staged it so the police would be forced to kill him. Death by cop. Even after shooting Emo, Smiley had plenty of chances to surrender. He could have thrown down his weapon, come out and saved his life, but instead he chose to barricade himself inside the house and shoot it out with the police until there was no possible solution but his own extinction.
I had to agree that on the surface it looked like a manufactured suicide. Except for two things. First, the guy had been wearing Kevlar. From my perspective, you don't wear Kevlar when you're trying to get the cops to kill you. It was inconsistent, but not unheard of.
The second inconsistency occurred in two of the neighbors' post-event statements. According to a neighbor named William Palmer, who lived four houses away on Hidden Ranch Road, Smiley had spent most of the previous summer building a bomb shelter in his basement. A woman down the street named Katie Clark had also mentioned the same thing. So the question is, why does someone who is so afraid he might die in a nuclear blast that he builds a bomb shelter in his basement commit suicide, and why was he wearing Kevlar? Those two facts didn't seem to fit in the same emotional quadrant with the Death-by-Cop theory.
I called Katie Clark, and her baby-sitter told me she was out of town on business until next Friday. That left William Palmer. He agreed to stay home and wait for me until 9 a. M.
As I turned back onto Hidden Ranch Road I remembered the bizarre insanity of my last visit here. I was still shaken by that bloodstained memory. I pulled up and parked in front of William Palmer's two-story colonial. White with dark green trim. Bright purple bougainvillea trellised off the front porch. Birds sang in the sycamore trees. A welcome contrast to the memory of that chattering AK-47.
I trudged up the walkway and rang the bell. After a moment Palmer opened the door. He was a tall, thirty-plus man with short hair and laugh lines framing a friendly smile. I liked him on sight. After I showed my creds, he shook my hand and led me into a large, well-appointed living room.
As we sat down he asked me to call him Tad. "Everybody does," he said, adding that he sold insurance for Aetna and had a meeting with his district manager in an hour, a not-too-subtle hint letting me know he didn't have much time. So we got right into a discussion of Vincent Smiley.
"The guy was always kinda nuts," Tad said, shaking his head at the memory. "Like, he'd walk his dog early every morning. If you went out to pick up your paper or were even backing out of your driveway late to work, he'd always want to stop and talk. And it was always about nonsense. Like, why didn't you plant out your hedge line? Or, your pool house would look better painted pale yellow… I don't know how he afforded that house of his. Somebody said it was from the life insurance after his parents died. He just hung out, giving dumb advice and getting on everybody's nerves. Since he didn't work, he had no sense of anybody else being on a schedule."
"Nobody said anything about a dog," I said. "That wasn't in any of the statements I read."
"Yeah, a big, slobbering, black Rottweiler. Mean son-of-a-bitch. I was always worried he'd get loose and maul somebody's kid. I know it's not right to be glad he's dead, but it was no fun having Smiley in the neighborhood."
"And he told you about the weapons in his garage?"
"Showed 'em to me. He was all, 'Don't you love this?' Then he'd pull out a grenade launcher or something, and break it open, show you the breech, show you a box of ammo for his AK-forty-seven. Then he shows us boxes of plastic gunk and tells us it's C-four."
"How would a guy like Smiley acquire C-four? That stuff is impossible to get. The government restricts its distribution so terrorists can't get it."
"I don't have a clue," Palmer said. "But I've got kids and a wife. I don't need that shit four doors away. Claire is taking the kids to school right now, but you can ask her when she gets back. She thinks he was one of those antigovernment survivalist nuts. He had this computer in his garage. He bragged about hacking into some military training site called Cactus West. It had all kinds of acronyms like MCAS, Yuma, or TACTS. He showed it to me."
"You have any idea what that stands for?" I asked, writing this down.
"None at all. I tried to find it on my computer, but I couldn't. Like I said, it was a secure military Web site. Add that to the automatic rifles, C-four, and a phony sheriff's badge, and we all knew we had a huge problem."
"Tad, you said in your statement he was building a bomb shelter?"
"Yeah. June, July, all last summer, basically. Said it was in his basement. He was hauling dirt outta that house right through the back door. Had it piled up in the backyard. Took truckloads away at the end of each month."
"And you're sure it was a bomb shelter?"
"That's what he said." Tad was beginning to sneak looks at his watch.
"I'll be just a minute more," I said. "So, if he was building a bomb shelter, what's your take on the idea that he shot that deputy so the cops would come up here and kill him?"
"I agree with my wife. The guy was a survivalist. I don't think he had a death wish. He told me once he went to a camp for training on how to survive in the wild. He was always flashing that badge, but he was also terrified of authority. He said he hated cops."
"He hates the cops, and at the same time he's telling everybody he is one."
"That's why me and Claire, and the Bellinghams, got together and decided to call the sheriff's department and check him out. He didn't seem like a cop to any of us. The sheriff's office said he wasn't on their roster, so we knew the badge was a phony."
"If you had to characterize him for me, how would you describe him? Just a general impression."
"The thing about Vince was he was kinda-y'know, outta sync. He didn't act right. He laughed at stuff that wasn't funny. His vibe was wrong. When he showed us all the stuff in his garage he'd kinda caress it. It was more than just ammo, it was like-manhood."
"And you called ATF, not the sheriff, right?"
"That was because a lot of that stuff in there was illegal. The automatic weapons and the grenade launcher. Chuck Bellingham said we should call Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives because illegal weapons are their beat."
He looked at his watch again and I stood up to go. "Thanks," I said. "Do you have a card, in case I have any more questions?"
He pulled one out of his wallet and handed it to me as we walked to the front door. After he showed me out I got back in my car, picked up my cell phone, and dialed the LASD bureau downtown and asked for the forensics lab. A criminalist named Robyn DeYoung was in charge of the Hidden Ranch shoot-out. Once I had her on the phone, I identified myself, and asked, "Did you guys find a dog's remains out there?"
She sounded guarded. "No, but you're LAPD. What's your interest? This is a sheriff's investigation."
"You can check with Sheriff Messenger's office. He'll verify my involvement."
There was a long pause.
"I'd lik
e to have somebody go out and rake through the ashes and look for that dog's remains," I continued.
"Why?" she asked.
"Because it's a loose end. There's supposed to be a dog. If you didn't find a dog, then where is it? It's a Rottweiler. They aren't all that cuddly. If he's out and running around loose up in the foothills, we should probably know that, don't you think?"
She didn't respond.
"Also, there's supposed to be a bomb shelter in the basement. We need to dig down and try and find it." She got very silent. I could tell I wasn't scoring many points with Ms. DeYoung.
"I'll check with Sheriff Messenger," she said after another long pause, not happy about having to go back out and sift through all those ashes again, or dig out a ton of soggy rubble looking for a bomb shelter. I had the feeling my request was going to get assigned a very low priority. I took down her direct-dial number and rang off.
My next stop was Smiley's burned-down house. I wanted one last look. I drove up the street and pulled to the curb on the east side of the cul-de-sac. There was already a green Suburban parked there. A blond woman was wandering in the ashes where the house had once stood. She was muscular, with short, spiky, white-blonde hair. As I walked closer I could see the powerful slope of a weightlifter's shoulders. Almost five-ten in low heels, she was wearing a tan miniskirt and a sleeveless cotton blouse. Her arms were cut, her legs were sinewy and tanned. I wouldn't call her exactly beautiful, but she fit into that unique category of strong-faced women who can accurately be called handsome. When she turned and focussed a level stare at me, another unique feature became apparent. Her right eye was blue, her left one green.
I stepped into the still damp ashes, crossed the distance between us, pulled out my badge and showed it to her. She studied it carefully. "LAPD?" she said. "I thought this was a sheriff's investigation."
"Let's start with who you are." I was trying not to sound badge-heavy and territorial, but I hated having civilians wandering around up here, even though the sheriff's yellow crime scene tape was down.
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