by Dianne Emley
“It’s just strange,” was all she said.
TWELVE
Only recently had Vining opened the files on her attempted murder. It had taken her more than a year to gather the courage. She thought that enough time had passed, and that she would be able to look at the evidence with a cool, analytical eye. She was unprepared for her visceral reaction. Seeing for the first time a photograph of the copious blood on that kitchen floor, her blood, had filled her with rage. Now she was facing the possibility of having her fervent fantasy realized: T. B. Mann in a cage within her grasp. She did not feel invigorated and in command. She felt light-headed and queasy.
They took the elevator. Folke inserted a key to gain access to the basement. Chase got off on the first floor, where he had work to do in the report-writing room before his shift ended.
Exiting the elevator into the jail, they approached a set of gun lockers. Kissick and Folke stashed their weapons, removing the key from the lock when closing the small metal door.
Vining removed her Glock .40 from her belt holster, and then took out the backup Walther PPK she wore on her right ankle. Kissick didn’t carry a backup weapon. Vining’s had saved her life once. She set it inside the small steel box, locked the door, and put the key in her jacket pocket.
She felt lighter without the guns. There was truth to the slang term describing a person carrying firearms as being “heavy.” For Vining, the heaviness had to do with more than the physical weight of the weapons; it had to do with the feeling of substance and power that accompanied it. She liked guns. She liked wearing them. She now felt as if she might blow away. Or get blown away.
The modern jail had pods as cells, with Plexiglas doors instead of bars, built in a circle with a central command station above the jail floor. There a single guard observed every area from a semicircular desk fitted with video monitors that displayed feeds from cameras in each cell and corner of the jail. Men and women were both housed there, in different cells.
They walked past a man reporting to jail who was undergoing a preliminary search by an officer. The man had his mouth open, was pulling his cheeks apart with his fingers, and had raised his tongue while the officer peered into his mouth with a flashlight, without touching him. Some low-security-risk prisoners were allowed to work at their outside jobs during the day and serve their sentences on nights and weekends. Others, depending upon their crimes, were at the Pasadena jail on a pay-to-stay arrangement—a source of revenue for the PPD. People who had the money to pay the per-day fee could choose from a few safer, cleaner suburban jails, and avoid lockups such as the notorious L.A. County Men’s Central Jail.
They approached the holding tank, which was crowded with men who had reveled too hard over the weekend. Some milled around, giving a desultory look at Vining. Some were Latino gang members, their hair as short as velvet revealing their gang insignia tattooed on their scalps. Several were sprawled on the floor against the wall, asleep.
Folke stood in front of the clear wall.
Vining did too, her lips pressed together as she searched the prisoners’ faces.
“He’s not here.” Folke got the attention of a female jailer who was passing by.
She was tanned, blond, and fit, and appeared to be in her twenties. Her sun-streaked hair was braided and coiled at the back of her head. A nametag on her uniform said: M. KUROSKY. She was a civilian employee of the police department.
Vining had once held the same job, which she’d landed shortly after Wes had abandoned her and Emily. Her family had thought she was nuts, but it paid well and the benefits were great. Police officers got paid even better. She applied, was accepted, got through the Academy, and never looked back.
Folke asked Kurosky, “Michelle, where’s the John Doe we brought in for indecent exposure and resisting arrest?”
“Nitro? I moved him to a pod … by himself. Guys were picking on him and … I was afraid … I thought he was going to get hurt. He’s down here.” She had that surfer slacker manner of speaking that was unique to a generation of young Southern Californians, nasal, with the vowels drawn out and the ends of words swallowed. The words came fast, then trailed off as if she’d forgotten what she was talking about.
That was one more thing that bugged Vining about Kurosky. She also wore her uniform too tight.
They followed the jailer.
“Has he communicated with anyone?” Folke asked Kurosky.
“No. He’s been sitting on the bed, quiet. Acts scared. He lets me come near him but not the men. I’m a psychology major at Cal State L.A., and I studied something called hysterical muteness. I’m thinking maybe Nitro witnessed something so horrible it made him mute.”
Vining let out a derogatory snort. “He might be a murderer.”
“Murderer?” Kurosky began. “Nitro?”
They passed a pod where a rail-thin man who was high on meth raged at the surveillance camera. He had pulled off his shirt and was trying to fling it over the lens. He’d also pulled the mattress off the platform attached to the wall and onto the floor. His shouts were muffled behind the Plexiglas.
“Joshua, cool it,” Kurosky said, slapping her hand against the clear door.
He sent a stream of epithets her way.
Kurosky continued babbling. “We gave Nitro the charcoals we found in his pocket and some paper, hoping he’d write his name or give us some clue to who he is. All he did was draw the pearl necklace he was wearing when he was brought in.”
When Vining spoke, her voice was raspy. She cleared her throat. “Where’s the necklace?”
“It’s secured with his personal belongings,” Kurosky said.
“May I see it?” Vining explained for Folke’s and Kissick’s benefit. “There’s been so much talk about it. Don’t you want to see it, Jim?”
“Sure,” he said without conviction.
A tall African American gang member leaned against the clear door to his pod and peered out, looking bored.
Nitro was in the next pod.
Vining spotted him before he saw her. She would have recognized him from the descriptions, but it was more than that.
He sat in the middle of the narrow mattress, knees pulled to his chest, wearing the clothes he had stripped off in Old Pasadena. Gangly arms and hands with slender fingers circled his legs. He rested his head against his knees, facedown, and was rocking slightly. The powdery blond of his erratic hair was matted with dried chili. His scalp and the back of his neck were sunburned. He wore only socks on his feet. His shoes were side by side beneath the shelf that supported the mattress.
Kurosky knocked on the Plexiglas. “Hey, Mister. Howya doin’?”
He looked up, first at the jailer, then quickly at Vining.
She inhaled sharply at the sight of his eyes. She was back in that kitchen and T. B. Mann had stabbed her, had plunged the knife into her neck. She’d touched it, feeling flesh, blood, and steel. Warmth and coolness. He had held her, caressed her. She had given in to his caress, allowed him that intimate trust reserved for a beloved. They had gazed into each other’s eyes. She knew she was giving herself to him, unwillingly but completely. And he was taking her, stolen yet his nonetheless. His now. Taking her, sucking it all in until her very … last … breath.
Kurosky asked, “Want me to open the pod?”
Vining said, “No. I can see him fine.”
“I’ll go get the necklace.” The jailer left.
Vining stood outside the pod with her feet planted in a ready position, her arms loose at her sides, prepared for action. Her behavior was instinctive. Her mind floundered. She’d dreamed of this moment. Prayed for it.
Nitro gave her a tentative smile, as if he knew her, perhaps from photos, like one knows a celebrity or a famous painting. Seeing it for real, it’s familiar, yet somehow completely different.
She felt that dreaded tightness in her chest. The hobgoblin was back, the eight-armed beast of her imagination. It began its cobra’s squeeze, robbing the breath from her.
>
I am strong. I am fine.
She struggled to remember the psychologist’s lessons, the one she hadn’t lied to. Or hadn’t lied much.
She tried to breathe deeply, still holding his gaze. I am in control. She unearthed her feet and moved closer.
He tentatively stood and approached her. Only the clear wall separated them. His nearly white hair and pale eyes stood out against his sunburned skin. With him in socks and her in shoes, they were eye-to-eye.
Kissick might have called her name.
But there were just the two of them there in the world, in their world—her and the thin pale man.
He was familiar to Vining. Something about him was T. B. Mann. Yet, he was not him.
Kissick and Folke silently watched, as if observing a delicate pas de deux. A cough or rustling among the audience would send the dancers tumbling to the floor.
“Who are you?” she growled.
Beneath Vining’s intense scrutiny, Nitro’s cornflower-blue eyes shaded from warmth to apprehension. Suddenly, she butted her head against the Plexiglas, startling him. He scrambled back to the bed.
She turned toward the surprised faces of Kissick and Folke.
“It’s not him.”
“You’re positive?” Folke asked, trying not to look at the red mark emerging on her forehead.
Vining thought about it. She would never forget T. B. Mann’s eyes when he held her as tightly as a lover during those last moments. She saw the same worshipful glint in Nitro’s eyes. But T. B. Mann’s eyes held more. Much more. His eyes had the wide stare and hard edges of a carnivore holding the neck of its prey between clamped jaws, achieving a near-hypnotic state as he squeezed the windpipe, feeling the prey squirm until it was still. Only then did he unhinge his jaws and let the corpse drop to the ground. Vining remembered when she was a child how she’d watched her adorable pet cat lunge at a mouse in the yard, grabbing on to its neck. How the cat had wailed when Vining’s mother took the dead mouse from it. The ultimate prize.
That look and the possibility of that look were absent from Nitro’s eyes.
Vining said, “I’m positive.”
“He seems like he knows you,” Kissick said.
Vining shrugged.
Kissick took a tiny digital camera from his pocket. “Let’s get some pictures anyway.”
As Kissick snapped, Nitro cowered on the bed, his back against the corner, his eyes peeking above his knees, which he’d pulled close.
Kurosky returned carrying a Baggie, which she handed to Vining. “You wanted to see this, Detective.”
From the bag, Vining slowly withdrew the pearl necklace. She shoved the Baggie into her pants pocket.
Folke pointed at the necklace. “Can you believe that’s the only thing he left on other than his shoes and socks? Why wear a necklace?”
Good question. Vining held it draped across her outstretched palms with the same distaste as if she were cradling the limp body of a hated intimate. The imitation pearls were peeling. The tiny fake diamonds surrounding the pendant had turned dark. Some were missing. A fake deep-blue gem was scratched. The design was identical to Vining’s necklace, the one she believed had been a gift from T. B. Mann. Her death stone was pearl. The pendant in this necklace held a dark blue stone, imitation sapphire. The necklace was decades old.
The Magic 8-Ball in Vining’s head provided the answer: This is where it started.
“Hold it up.” Kissick aimed the camera in her direction.
She reversed the necklace so the pendant faced the camera. She handled it gingerly, not touching it more than necessary, giving it respect yet at the same time feeling mild revulsion, as if handling the relic of a saint.
The appearance of the necklace had rallied Nitro’s courage. He again approached the Plexiglas. He pointed to the necklace, pantomimed putting it on, then pointed at Vining.
Kurosky brightened. “That’s amazing. He’s communicating. He wants you to put on the necklace, Detective.” She did her own pantomime of putting on the necklace, miming Nitro. “What if you try it? This is a breakthrough. Try it.”
This encouraged Nitro, and he began agitatedly patting his chest, where he wanted the necklace to lie on her body.
Vining silenced the jailer with a look. She turned her gaze toward Nitro. Raising her hand, she shook the necklace at him and spoke through clenched teeth. “You want me to wear this? You want me to wear this? What will you do? What will you do if I wear this?”
He backed away. He dropped to the floor and tried to cram himself beneath the bed. When he didn’t fit, he pulled the bedcovers off the mattress and hid himself under them.
Vining could see only one of his bright eyes. “He’s not the guy who attacked me.”
“You’re sure, Nan?” Folke asked.
“I’m sure.”
Folke said, “Nitro, we’re going to charge you with indecent exposure and resisting arrest. Let’s throw in disturbing the peace too.”
Nitro’s one visible eye shifted to look at Folke.
“Do you understand these charges?”
Nitro blinked and shifted his gaze to Vining.
“He needs psychological help,” Kurosky pleaded. “You’re not going to send him to County Jail, are you? They’ll eat him alive.”
Folke gestured for Vining and Kissick to come with him. They walked a few feet away.
Folke spoke in a low voice. “I’ve never seen anything like this guy.”
“Any prior criminal history?” Kissick asked.
Folke shook his head. “Nothing came back on his fingerprints. We can send him to the Big G on a fifty-one fifty or we can file charges.”
“But he can’t be arraigned if he won’t state his name or whether he understands the charges against him,” Kissick said. “The court would have him evaluated to determine his competency to stand trial. Who knows how long before he’s determined to be competent, if ever. Why would we go that route over a fifty-one fifty for a couple of Mickey Mouse charges?”
“We’d only do that if we wanted to keep him incarcerated longer than seventy-two hours,” Folke said. “It would give us more time to find out about him and what he’s up to. Even if we send him to the Big G, there’s no guarantee they’d keep him that long. A psychiatrist could determine he’s stable and cut him loose before seventy-two hours. Still, it’s like he enacted a textbook scenario for a fifty-one fifty. Stripping off his clothes. Running through traffic. Acting as crazy as possible without doing serious damage but showing he’s a danger to himself.” He looked at Vining. “Your call, Nan.”
She paced back and forth, holding the necklace in her fist. Her back to them, she looked at it while she considered her options. After a minute, she turned to face them.
“This guy’s got serious mental problems. Sending him to the Big G is the right thing to do.”
“You’re sure?” Kissick asked.
“Yes.”
They walked back to Nitro’s pod, where he was still on the floor, covered up.
“Michelle, get that stuff off him,” Folke ordered the jailer.
“Nitro, we can’t have you on the floor like that.” Kurosky entered the pod and pulled off the bed coverings. “Get up.” She tugged his arm.
Holding his eyes on Vining and the necklace she held between her fingers, he climbed to his feet.
“Looks like he understands to me,” Kissick observed.
Kurosky put the bed coverings back in place while Nitro kept his eyes on Vining’s. He didn’t cower or act afraid.
Vining stepped inside the pod and moved close to him. Too close. One swift move and he could have embedded his teeth in her face. She was close enough to smell his sweat. The nearness of him sent electricity through her.
It was him, but it was not him.
Kissick and Folke moved near the open door.
“Nan,” Kissick warned.
Vining quickly raised her hand that held the necklace.
That startled Nitro. He scurried
to the wall.
“Why do you want me to wear this?” She came after him, holding the necklace, raising it higher. “This isn’t my necklace.” She punched out with her arm and the necklace hit his face. It then swung, like a hypnotist’s charm.
He pressed against the wall but there was nowhere for him to go. His lips trembled. She recognized the fear in his eyes. She knew he wasn’t faking it. She relished it. She loved it. She could have killed him or kissed him, they were that close.
“It’s yours,” she said, dropping the necklace inside the plastic bag and drawing her fingers along the seal. She handed it to Kurosky, and said, “Put it back with his personal possessions.”
Before Vining left the cell, she gave Nitro a look and mentally sent him a message: I’ll see you again.
Kissick tensely joked, “I know the necklace didn’t match your outfit, Nan, but …”
As she passed the others, Vining said, “I’ll teach that clown to draw pictures of me.”
THIRTEEN
Mark Scoville mentally toted up his losses. After the first weekend of college football, he was down fifteen large. While he’d won on Ohio State over Northern Illinois with a ten-point spread, and the UCLA Bruins with twenty-one over Utah, he’d taken a bath on the USC Trojans in their preseason game against Arkansas. He’d called Oliver Mercer after the game on Saturday to ride his ass over the Trojans’ poor showing. They’d exchanged playful barbs that were only superficially in jest. Their brief relationship had soured big-time over the proposed merger with Drive By Media. It all came down to money and power. Scoville doubted that even a struggle over a woman could create such animosity between men. Ultimately, the hand would come down on the side of money over the broad any day. All that Iliad and Odyssey fighting over Helen of Troy … That was a myth.
Later that same Saturday evening, Mercer would be murdered. His girlfriend too, which was a shame. Just like that, the problems Scoville was having with Mercer were over. The likelihood that Scoville would be tossed from the business his father had built from scruffy patches of dirt along the freeway to LAX was now as unforeseeable as Los Angelenos abandoning their cars for mass transportation. Wasn’t gonna happen.
