by Terri Nolan
He remembered her petite body in clothes that accentuated her small curves, the way she cocked her head to get a point across, the way her cool skin felt under his hands when she climbed on top of him and how quickly it warmed. He thought about her laugh in his ear as she teased him, the giggle when he sucked her nipples, the moans coming later. She made it obvious that she was smitten. He liked that.
Reynolds presence at Thom’s elbow halted the adolescent reverie. “Man, you’re slow. Most detectives go straight to the bodies.”
“I don’t,” said Thom. He never did. He walked murder scenes as the killer might’ve—wanting to see what the killer saw. “This carpet is dark. Might conceal blood. Stay close to the wall.”
“I’ve done this once or twice,” said Reynolds. He whistled as the shutter snapped. “Isn’t it strange there are only portraits of girls? A wall full of suspects.”
The acidic scent of congealed blood in the kids’ room prickled the nose. The sight of the Asian twins almost made Thom reel. There was no fury on the bodies, just deadly precision. They were spooned on the floor, covered in a princess comforter of blue and silver. Heads placed on a shared pillow. Their pale faces frozen in sisterly tranquility. One gunshot wound to each temple. Reddish-black goo like Halloween gel matted their hair. A rivulet of blood had spilled into the recess of a closed eye and pooled. The other twin died with her eyes open.
Thom squatted and placed the back of his hand near her plump cheek. “I wonder,” he whispered, “did you hear the shot that killed your sister and open your eyes for a brief moment before your time came? Did you feel the bullet penetrate your skull? Would you have wanted to survive this world without your other half ?” Thom thought of his own twin, Aiden. “I couldn’t’ve.” And Rose without Nora? Thom gritted his teeth. These little girls, both serene and violent, would stick with him. The kids always did.
Mindful that Reynolds was near, Thom stepped back and the hard-ass cop mask dropped across his face. He eyeballed the utilitarian room. It contained a glossy white bunk bed. White dressers with pink knobs were stenciled with their names. Amy and Amber. Two small upholstered chairs were shoved against the wall with a shared reading lamp. There was no toy box, no bulletin board stuck with shiny objects, no dolls, no teddy bears, not even a clock.
Thom said, “Two beds, two comforters, one pillow.”
“And no fired casings,” said Reynolds.
“Not expected in an execution.”
Thom moved down the hall to the master bedroom.
On the bed Dominic lay on his back. There were two visible wounds: in the middle of the forehead and in the groin. The faded blue comforter looked as if it had been moved off him, but Thom couldn’t inspect it carefully until the CI arrived.
Reynolds pointed at the groin and said, “That’s personal.”
“The head shot is personal,” corrected Thom. “It indicates the killer knew his victim. The groin shot is business.” Then why shoot the wife and kids? Personal or business or a little of both? His eye fell to a bloodied item discarded on the floor. The missing princess pillow. Used as a muffle. He pulled out his cell and sent a text to George.
TWINS DONE 1ST
Rachel lay curled up on her left side, bloodied temple peeking from the blanket that she held tight to her nose like a cocoon. She probably felt safe in a childlike way—never expecting to be murdered in her sleep.
Thom leaned over Lawrence, noted the disturbance in the glossy blood of the groin wound. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “but if this happened because you touched little girls, I hope you rot in hell.”
Thom moved on to the bathroom and stared at two words scrawled on the master bath mirror.
Dead fish
Each letter had sharp edges. Nearly see-through and shimmery in the mirror’s spotlighted reflection. A bloodied foam brush lay in the sink. The tool dipped into Dominic’s blood to write the creepy words. Something dark caught Thom’s eye. He leaned in to inspect what looked like a pubic hair stuck in the letter D.
Prints entered the bathroom. “What does it mean?”
Thom crossed his arms in study. “Pushover? Easy prey? Someone easily defeated or dominated?” Then he thought of Cross’ description of Lawrence—‘big fish’. He glared at the words. Dead fish. “Mostly it means the killer is a narcissist.”
Prints knit her brows.
“He wants attention.”
“Sick.” Then as an afterthought she said, “The hidden room is ready.”
“Excellent. As soon as George is done with the PR we’ll crack it open and find us some dirty little secrets.”
nine
Mayo read the morning newspaper article about bad cops and quickly became engrossed in the story.
FORMER LAPD COMMANDER SUSPECTED
OF RUNNING A RING OF ROBBERS
By Elizabeth Keane
Special to The Times
Part 1 of 2
Federal authorities believe a former LAPD commander organized a band of police officers into a network of thieves who engaged in armed robbery, extortion, and blackmail, according to law enforcement and people with knowledge of the investigation.
The gang, calling themselves the Blue Bandits, came to the attention of authorities when an associate, Gerard Keane, Captain of Hollywood Division [the writer’s father], dispatched—via a lawyer—affidavits, supporting documents, and depositions to the District Attorney’s office. Also included was a ledger of misdemeanors going back twelve years.
Keane sent a duplicate set of the material to his daughter. The documents named many current and former LAPD officers as associates.
According to the DA’s office there have been rumors for years regarding the Blue Bandits, but no viable evidence to support an investigation. The LAPD and the FBI have joined forces in a taskforce to investigate all claims made by Keane.
The alleged head of the gang and founding member was Ralph Soto, a retired commander of Central Bureau. The co-leader was West Bureau Deputy Chief, Theodore Rankin. They both died on February 7th.
In an excerpt from a letter that accompanied the documentation Keane sent to his daughter, he wrote, “It was well past time for the madness to end. I asked Soto and Rankin to join me in retiring from our life of crime. Disband the Blue Bandits. Disappear into oblivion. Rankin was willing. Soto was not. So I finished it. I shot and killed Soto with my service weapon. It was the only time it had ever been fired outside the range. After informing Rankin of the package I sent to the DA he took his own life … and I’ll meet my end soon enough. This crime drama will end badly.”
Keane’s life ended shortly after mailing the letter. He led Indio police and the California Highway Patrol on a high-speed chase. According to a CHP spokesperson, when Keane finally stopped and exited the vehicle he fired a gun and was fatally shot in return fire. This is commonly referred to as suicide by cop.
Authorities close to the investigation wonder how a cop gang could go undetected for so long. The answer might lie at the beginning with Dr. Glen Soto, Ralph Soto’s son.
According to a federal agent close to the investigation, Dr. Soto is cooperating with the investigation and has corroborated much of Keane’s information.
Dr. Glen Soto was a successful psychiatrist who specialized in marital counseling. He ran his practice out of the Janko Medical Center, a drop-in, pay-as-you-go clinic for non-emergencies. He was a pioneer in unorthodox therapies. One of those utilized MDMA, a drug in the amphetamine family.
Its chemical composition releases massive levels of norepinephrine in the brain. Couples found the resulting feeling of empathy and sense of euphoria helpful as they talked through their issues.
Once MDMA made the transition from therapy drug to a popular, feel-good party drug of choice, the Federal Drug Administration reclassified it as a Schedule I drug. Even after it became illegal, Dr. Soto continued to use
it and his practice flourished. Appointments were booked months in advance.
He found himself focusing less on patients as his dispensing profits grew. Fearing a supply problem, he funded a laboratory in Oregon to manufacture the drug.
In a statement to police, Dr. Soto said, “One day I realized I was nothing more than a drug dealer. But I continued because the money was so good.”
Dr. Soto’s worst fears were realized when the Oregon laboratory was raided by federal authorities. Only three days later, Soto’s in-house pharmacy was robbed. In a brazen attack, three armed men stormed the facility in broad daylight and stole all of Janko’s MDMA stores.
“That’s when I called my dad,” Soto stated to authorities. “I couldn’t call nine-one-one and report a robbery. I’d be arrested. I did the next best thing. At first, all I wanted was my product back. Then I began to hatch a plan. Why not have the protection of the police on my side?”
According to Dr. Soto, his father was initially angry when he learned of his son’s dealing, but with a little convincing he saw the earning potential.
Thus, a drug enterprise was born. One sanctioned and operated by a well-respected cop known as a hardliner …
_____
Mayo shivered with exhilaration. Wait until Tuesday to get the rest of the story? Impossible. It was too good. Drug dealing. Robbery. Murder. By cops! How exciting. Mayo visualized how the Blue Bandits interacted. The planning. The scheming. The late night rendezvous in dark places.
Mayo reread a part about Ralph Soto … his seduction into a double life came on quick. Like a sudden fever … Soto became de facto president of Janko and in the first two years, he made eight years’ worth of departmental salary.
That kind of money is a great motivator, thought Mayo. Peanuts compared to what I’m gonna get. When this is done I’ll take my own money and do whatever I want. Buy my own island like that rich guy, the one with the planes. Planes. Yes. I’ll need one of those to get to my island. I’ll need a boat, too. And a staff I can boss around.
The article went on about something called the Paige Street murder. It was very long and Mayo got distracted by another thought and made a phone call.
“Yeah?”
“Have you seen the morning paper?”
“Are you shitting me? Did you forget what I’m doing?”
“This reporter wrote an article about her dad. Ratted him out. Okay, he’s dead. But still … her own father!”
“And this should interest me why?”
“I’m going to call her. Her email address is at the bottom of the article. That means she has an extension, too. I’ll call information to get the number for the Los Angeles Times.”
“Don’t be stupid! You’re not calling the newspaper.”
“Why not? This is the break we’ve been looking for. She can help us.”
“We got our break when you killed the high-profile fish. Now the cops will get their shit together and figure it out.”
“It’s taking too long!”
“What got you wound up?”
“I like this murder thing. It was fun. I want more.”
“There might be another chance. Be patient.”
“You had more than me.”
“I killed four. You killed four. We’re even.”
“When you put it like that …”
“We have to stay focused on the next phase. Are you ready?”
“I want my money.”
“Be patient, my love. We’re almost there. Remember how we worked it out? The killing was the easy part. We still have roles to play.”
“I can’t call the reporter and play with her?”
“No.”
“Just one call?”
“NO. Listen to me, I’ll be over soon and rub your feet the way you like.”
“Will you … you know … lick me? I like that, too.”
“It will be a reward for not calling the reporter.”
“Okay, okay. I won’t call.”
“I have to go now. I’ll see you soon.”
It’ll be a secret, thought Mayo, and I’ll still get my reward. Mayo called 4-1-1.
ten
The locked room was not a torture chamber. Nor a den of child pornography. It was a home office. Beyond anticlimactic.
Thom had hoped for some big-ass clue pointing them in a solid direction. Instead he found a flat screen set on a mainstream news channel and a desktop computer with bookmarked cooking and craft websites. Two over-filled shelves of books were devoted to child rearing. Thom browsed the topics. Discipline, psychology, family health, drug abuse, sex education, spiritual philosophies. The books were bursting with Post-it page markers. It was apparent that Dominic and Rachel Lawrence took their roles as foster parents seriously.
A locked file drawer caught Thom’s interest. He searched the office until he found the key inside a box of paper clips. The drawer was devoted to folders for every girl. They were in descending order. Amy and Amber’s file up front. The Lawrence’s didn’t foster just any kids. They fostered at-risk kids. On the inside flap of each folder was a photo of the child and a ten set. Inside were psychological reports, compilations of troubled histories, observations made by child care professionals, logs of doctor’s visits. Most importantly, detailed reportage written by Dominic or Rachel logging the daily care and schedule of the children. And the cost. Each file had an accounting of every penny spent.
Thom scanned the files for indications of troubled or mentally unstable kids. There were difficulties, but nothing out of the ordinary considering the demographic. He reached the end of the files before realizing that Jelena’s wasn’t there. He went through the files again thinking it had been misfiled.
Still no Jelena.
George stuck his head into the office, fresh from examining the rest of the house and eyeing the bodies. Thom noted the shell shock still on his face. It took a while to wipe away the image of death that seemed to etch itself onto the observer. Longtime homicide detectives seemed to wear it permanently, giving them a tough veneer. George had yet to grow his.
“A retreat from the mundane,” said George.
“Not really,” said Thom. “This is a work room.” He handed George the twin’s folder. “Each kid has one. A complete history. Amy and Amber were born in Cleveland, Ohio. Their parents came over from China on a tourist visa. Stayed long enough to give birth to the kids and knew enough English to ask for social security cards. A few weeks later they abandoned the babies at a fire station, their birth records and other documentation attached to their swaddling blankets. Then they returned to China and disappeared.”
George shook his head in disgust.
“What does Lena’s say?” he said.
“Jelena’s file is missing.”
“A big clue.”
“Indeed. Could she have done it?”
“She made it clear she didn’t like the twins. I’ve upgraded her to a person of interest. I inspected her car, then kicked her loose. It was squeaky clean. No murder implements. No visible evidence of you there.”
“I’m pretty good at picking up my trash.”
“You might be her alibi once TOD is established. Do you know what time you left her?”
Thom pinched his temples. “I’ve no idea. I don’t even remember driving to Bird’s. The good news is that she has an upgraded security system. The key log would’ve recorded when I arrived. We’ll call her later. But I can’t think about that now. Did you notice the decimated princess pillow? Five shots, close range. Foam everywhere. All that splatter.”
“Serology lit up the hallway,” said George. “Blood drops lead from the kids’ room into the master. No doubt, they were killed first. Perhaps they were the target?”
“That’d mean the bloody mirror and Dominic’s dick is window dressing. Maybe to throw us off. Too
early to say. What we know for sure is that this homicide was committed by an organized killer.”
“They’re the hardest to catch.”
“Usually. But this one wants attention. It’s how we’re going to get his sorry ass. Did you inspect the garages?”
“Yeah. The one on the far left is an enclosed one-car used for storage. Bicycles. Kid toys. Clothing boxed by size. The other two doors open into an oversized two-car. A Toyota sedan had Dominic’s swipe ID in the passenger seat. I bagged it. A minivan had the usual stuff you’d expect to find when one ferries kids around. Snacks, books, games, bottles of water, like that.”
“Find a briefcase or a laptop?”
“No.”
Thom held up the end of a cord with an adapter on the end. “Here’s the power for a laptop. Maybe Dominic left it and the briefcase at the office for the weekend.”
“Yeah, with Jelena’s missing file.”
“Like we ever get that lucky.”
Crime scene tech, Spenser, stepped inside the office. “I have something to show you.” He held up a succession of clear evidence envelopes with strands of hair. “Got these off the hardwood. Medium, straight, black—Amy and Amber. Long, auburn, wavy—Rachel. Short, ash—Dominic. Long, straight, blond—probably the PR’s. Of course these are preliminary findings. I’ll get exemplars after the CI arrives.”
“I’m not feeling hopeful on finding evidence of our murder suspect,” said George.
“This will cheer you up,” said Spenser, grinning at him like a proud puppy. He held up a piece of foil that had vague etched lines in a random pattern. “A footprint.”
“That the hydro-stat image?” said Thom. “Looks like crumpled paper.”
“Close. It’s fabric from cloth booties. Like the ones we’re wearing.”
