by Terri Nolan
Anita stood to speak. “My case is highly unusual and at its end is an all-important statement.”
thirty-two
The Criminal Courts Building was rededicated the Clara Shortridge Foltz Criminal Justice Center over a decade ago. The long and awkward name never stuck and it continued to be known as the Criminal Courts Building or CCB for short. Located on West Temple between Broadway and Spring Street, it was the location of the infamous O.J. Simpson murder trial.
During Birdie’s staff reporter days she had spent a lot of time in the building covering court cases. So familiar, she knew which rest-rooms were less crowded and the bank of elevators used least, with the fewest floor stops, and therefore faster. But today she took the stairs. A year ago she wouldn’t have dreamt about walking up seventeen floors. Sobriety, a healthy diet, and regular exercise had changed her life, and today the upward trek didn’t daunt her.
She took the corridor toward ADA Daniel Eubanks’ office. Once opening the outer door she walked into the inner sanctum of assistants, clerks, and other ADAs as if she owned the place. The press pass on the lanyard around her neck didn’t match the ID badge of the employees around her, but a well-placed coffee cup concealed that fact.
As she approached Danny’s office she noticed the dark spot, a shadow of a closed door. Danny always left it open when he was in. Any other time it was closed and locked—even when he jetted out for a quick trip to the men’s room. Hell, she took a risk and lost. She hadn’t made an appointment thinking surprise would work in her favor. She had almost reached his door and was about to turn around when it opened. The District Attorney exited with Danny in her wake.
Shit! She didn’t want to be seen by the boss. Her past intimacies with Danny and subsequent friendship needed to stay quiet. Even a whisper would taint his standing and credibility with the DA.
She dropped her head and lead with her shoulder as they passed. She dared a peek at Danny’s profile. His jaw set in displeasure, but not so mad, because he left the door ajar for her and she quickly slid inside.
Birdie glanced around the office. Bookcases were mostly hidden behind file boxes stacked every which way. A fire inspector’s nightmare. There was so little elbow room that visitors had to sit in a folding chair that was shut closed when not in use. She’d never been alone in his office before and the temptation to snoop tugged at her sense of right and wrong. Had she not already known what he was working on she might let go and flip through the files laid open on his desk and look for a juicy tidbit. Instead, she respected his privacy and the trust he bestowed and sat on the still-warm folding chair and placed her hands in her lap.
A few minutes later Danny returned and promptly locked the door.
“You nearly gave me a heart attack,” he admonished.
“I’ve been doing that a lot lately.”
“Give me a hug.” He pulled her up off the chair and firmly wrapped his arms around her. She sensed that he required the hug more than she did.
She enjoyed being enveloped in his embrace and fondly remembered what attracted her to him in the first place. He was her type: strong, handsome, rugged, and crazy smart.
“Danny, your heart is beating way too fast.”
He let her go. “This is not the time to be seen in this office. Why didn’t you call?”
“I didn’t want a record of my visit. Did she notice me?”
“Too preoccupied.”
“With the Blue Bandits?”
“And then some.” He sat on the edge of the desk, which forced her to look up at him. She hated when he did that. She’d rather he sit behind the desk, at eye level. Although from this vantage she saw a thing she rarely saw. The pistol he wore on his ankle.
“The only time you spring a surprise visit on me is when you’re unhappy about something. What’s up?”
“Who’s blowing the bugle?” she said.
“What?”
“Who’s leading the charge against Thom?”
“What are you talking about?”
“When I got immunity for the family it was with the understanding that they didn’t know Gerard was an outlaw. No one could come after them. So why is Thom being targeted?”
Danny shrugged and shook his head. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” he said as he moved around the desk to sit. A body language expert might think the action a defense mechanism, but Birdie sensed his legitimate confusion.
“The immunity granted my family is a roadblock to prosecution for crimes they didn’t even know about. But what if someone wants a Keane to pay for Gerard? Even when the charges would be proved unfounded, whoever was the target would have their reputation ruined and they’d lose their livelihood anyway.”
“If that’s happening, it’s not coming from this office. The state cannot—”
“—the state … yes, you’re right. The state cannot come after any Keane. Can the federal government?”
“Sure. But why would they? Prosecuting guilty knowledge is nearly impossible in the flush of times. Considering the budgetary state of the feds I doubt they’d waste their resources.”
“That’s what Louis thinks, too, but they were invited in by the LAPD.”
“To run a parallel investigation of the Blue Bandits. There are five members of that gang awaiting trial as we speak. Our resources are busy with them. I can’t speak on the record, but the feds wouldn’t waste their time on Thom, or you, or any other Keane who might know something.”
“You put the emphasis on might. Very lawyerly.”
Danny smiled. He had a nice one. His brown skin contrasted with the white enamel and made his teeth shine all the brighter. Birdie felt a flutter in her chest. Another positive, physical reaction to a man. Very good progress.
“Why do you think someone is after Thom?”
“Well … I’ll tell you a secret.”
Danny threw up his hands. “Whoa. No secrets.”
“Based on what you’ve already said, this one doesn’t compromise you.”
Danny shook his finger at Birdie. “You know full well that I still find you deliciously enticing. You’re such a vixen to take advantage.”
“I’ll tread carefully.”
“Alright,” he sighed. “Go on.”
“Thom is the target of an integrity audit. He was told as such by his supervisor, Lieutenant Lance Craig. Thom was with a woman Saturday night who turned out to be the one who found the Lawrence crime scene.”
“That’s Thom’s case?”
“Not initially. When Craig found out that Thom had been with the woman the night before—and, by the way, she was the Lawrence’s foster child—he gave the case to Thom to test his integrity on the matter. Thom may have a reputation as being a screwup in his private life, but he takes his job overly serious. He passed the test, but Craig has refused to remove Thom from the case. And now it was discovered that the Lawrence murders are one in a serial.”
“No, shit? And Craig still won’t take him off ?”
“Thom has practically begged. You know how it is with the department. They try to avoid all conflicts of interest.”
“How did Craig know he’d been with the woman?”
“Thom’s under surveillance. Eyes and ears. Thom was told the decision to keep him on the case came from upstairs.”
“As in the command staff ? Maybe even the chief ?” Danny leaned back and tented his fingers in thought. “No. It’s not the department.”
“Are you privy to audits?”
“No, but I’m ninety-nine percent certain that upper command wouldn’t be so stupid. And I just don’t see the feds in on this.”
“Who does that leave?”
“This Lance Craig for sure. Sounds like he’s screwing with Thom. Why else would he tell the subject of an audit that he was being audited? Makes no sense. I’d question everything th
e guy says.”
“Maybe he’s not a poker player like you.”
“Come on, Elizabeth, it’s not in his best interest. He might have guilty knowledge and is simply putting Thom on his guard. Do they get along?”
“According to Thom they do.”
“So he’s being Thom’s friend by giving him the four-one-one?”
“That’s twisted and backward, but let’s say it’s crazy enough to be true. Who would that leave?”
“You know I don’t like hypotheticals. But let’s approach from another direction. Maybe it’s not job related. Maybe it’s personal. Maybe someone tattled to Craig about what Thom did the night before. Maybe Craig took it upon himself to test his detective. Thom passed, but Craig couldn’t reassign it again. He makes up a cover story.”
“Danny, you are not a maybe man. And you just said too many. And besides, Thom does have eyes and ears. The fact was independently confirmed.”
“Fair enough. How’s this? Who’d have the resources to conduct a personal vendetta?”
Birdie’s skin prickled. “Ahhh, Danny. I knew there was a reason I came here today.”
thirty-three
“On May two a woman looked out her bedroom window and saw a sight she’d never seen before.”
Oh, Anita’s a storyteller, thought Thom. Who would’ve known? He liked her at this moment. She had the attention of every man in the room—including his. And, oh, that red dress …
“The man who lived in the apartment directly across the alley from her had never once opened his curtains. On this morning he did. Only he didn’t. Our killer did. The killer wanted his body found. We at the Santa Monica Police Department know this because Jerry Deats’ body was in an advance stage of decomposition.
“Jerry Deats was a fifty-four-year-old white male. He lived alone and was—by all neighborly accounts—an odd man. He often spent hours on his porch smoking cigarettes. He was a loner. A hoarder. He didn’t like conversation. Mostly, he shut himself into his garage apartment and did who knows what.
“His homicide was similar to all of yours: a single shot to the head with a small caliber weapon. The words dead fish were written in blood on the mirror and a foam brush was left behind. The coroner placed Deats’ murder during a three-day window. April fifteen to eighteen. After listening to what’s been said this morning, I now believe that Jerry was killed on Sunday the fifteenth. If this is so, our killer murdered someone in their sleep every Sunday for three weeks straight. Only Jerry’s body was not found on the kill day like the others, hence the opening of the curtains.
“A decomp crime scene is the worst kind. Me and my team made the mistake of not looking closely enough through the garbage in his home. We had exhausted our leads and had no reason to believe his murder was one of many, but we put out the bulletin anyway in hopes that something familiar stuck with another jurisdiction.
“Detective Silva here was the first response we got. And only a few hours later Detective Keane came out and reexamined the scene. He discovered that the victim’s laptop was missing, and he found an envelope that contained some papers that Deats took great pains to hide …”
Anticipation made the heartbeats of six men almost audible.
“Jerry Deats was also being evicted. Just like the Maxwell fellow. But he’d been paying the rent on time every month and he wasn’t going to go quietly. In the envelope was a letter from an eviction lawyer. The language was abusive and bullying.”
“Why was he being evicted?” said Diego of Pacific Station, with a twist of his mustache.
“It’s unclear based on the one letter recovered. We suspect that the missing computer has the answers. What we do have is Jerry Deats’ last words in an original handwritten letter dated five days before he died. It read: ‘If they can’t kick me out, they will kill me out.’”
A collective gasp filled the room.
“There was a singular cigarette butt left behind in Jerry Deats’ ashtray that was different than the others,” continued Anita. “Despite the moist ocean air it was in fair shape and the lab was able to construct a DNA profile. It didn’t get any hits in the databases, but we have something for future comparison. Unfortunately, the bullet inside Jerry’s skull was of no use—like the other Sunday homicides.”
After a short round of questions Thom moved on.
“This brings us to the Lawrence homicide,” said Thom. “Four people were also shot as they slept. Dominic, his wife Rachel, and their two foster children, Amy and Amber. The girls were only ten years old. The killer wrote dead fish in blood on the bathroom mirror. He also used a pillow as a muffle. And so, other than the broken window as point of entry, our subject’s MO has been consistent, but he changed his signature. He shot Dominic in the pelvic region. We are considering the possibility that the killer meant to destroy the penis, but it missed the reproductive organs, tore through soft tissue and lodged in the kidney. We now have a bullet intact enough for comparison.
“We know that in the last two homicides the killer took something. A computer from Jerry Deats. There is a possibility the killer also took a file from Dominic’s.”
“Why do you say possibility?” said Seymour.
“It’s missing from the home, but we’re not sure why it’s missing. Was it removed by the killer or by Dominic himself ? Our adult victims in this case were foster care parents. They had detailed files on every one of their charges. The files were in a locked cabinet in a locked office that was hidden behind a tapestry. It is unknown if the unsub even knew this room existed. The missing file is that of previous foster child, Jelena Shkatova. She was the person who found the bodies, she is also a clerk in Dominic’s office—who, by the way, is a city attorney. A Special Master has been assigned to assist us in searching Dominic’s city office.”
“More like hinder us,” said George.
“In any event,” continued Thom, “the file may not be significant, but until we find it, we won’t know. There is another element of this case that is quite disturbing. The coroner determined that Rachel was fourteen weeks pregnant and that Dominic was sterile. We’re awaiting DNA for a paternal profile. What, if any, significance the pregnancy had in the commission of these murders is unknown at this time. But that shot to the groin …? We’ll know more this evening when the lab is finished.”
“Going straight to the head of the line for lab work is a benefit of a high-profile victim,” groused Shaw of Culver City.
“Indeed,” added Lance Craig. “The press is hounding Media Relations for information on the Lawrence family. The chief is considering the scope and when or if to hold a press conference. Like Captain Carter said, we don’t want any word of a serial to leak. We don’t want a panic on our hands. Until we know what links all the victims and can give the population some reassurances that they won’t be murdered in their sleep, we’ll be keeping this dark.”
“Late last night,” said Thom, “I found a connection between the Deats and Lawrence homicides.”
Craig threw Thom a look that bordered on incredulity. Thom didn’t understand why but pressed forward with his presentation.
“Tacky residue was on both front doors,” said Thom. “It was as though something had been taped there. We know Deats was being evicted and it is unclear at this time if Lawrence was as well. There was no evidence of such inside the home, and we’ve been unable to secure a look at Dominic’s laptop.”
“The SM wants to make sure we don’t see privileged information,” added George, “we’re pretty certain that the laptop was for personal use, but until we get a look we won’t know for sure.”
“So what’s the connection?” said Anita.
Thom was prepared to play it up. Like finding it was really hard work. In fact, Birdie had done it, but she told Thom how to make it appear as though he did.
“Deats was a renter. His landlord, the one trying to evict him,
was Mobeck Finance Holdings. Lawrence was also a renter. His landlord was Great Western Group. We now know that all eight victims were renters, though I didn’t know that last night. The note Jerry Deats wrote really bothered me: If they don’t kick me out, they’ll kill me out. On the surface, we have two seemingly unrelated companies: Mobeck and Western. They each have different companies managing the properties. However, after searching databases for articles of incorporation, tax rolls, and such we now know that both companies are owned by L.A. National Housing Trust. Whether this is coincidence or a matter of import is yet to be determined.”
“Fine work, detective,” said Craig, in a dismissive manner. “There are also other details that need to be established. What was our perpetrator doing during the four weeks between the Deats and Lawrence murders? And is the killer planning to murder again this Sunday? The way I see it, gentlemen … and ma’am … is that we have four days to get the SOB. Now, let’s talk about assignments.”
thirty-four
Birdie changed clothes in the backseat of her Taurus. No dress and high heels needed where she was headed. She shimmied into jeans and laced the steel-toed Wolverines, pulled on a white tank top, buttoned a tattered denim shirt. She pulled back her long hair and quickly braided it, securing the end with a #16 rubber band. She swiped a makeup remover sheet gently across her eyes, removing most of the eye shadow and mascara, but not all of it. Then she took off the blush and added a bit of translucent powder. She wrapped white medical tape around the joint that connected the intermediate and distal phalanges of her right and left hands then dirtied the tape by rubbing the cleansing cloth across its bright whiteness. She flexed her fingers, used tweezers to pull out a few threads of the tape—the small details of the blue collar costume.
She opened the trunk and removed a hardhat covered in stickers denoting the reserve, rig, and other affiliations of the oil drilling business. She had once lived on an offshore oil platform to get an insider’s view of the business and write a feature about drilling off the California coast. She may be left of center in her politics, but she was all for ocean drilling and against fracking and those positions were proudly stated on the skull cover—with the required equipment: a pair of safety glasses perched on top and a pair of earplugs dangling from a yellow cord down the back. She shoved her phone into a fake leather holder that was at least ten years old and attached it to her waist, stuffed a pair of work gloves into the back pocket. Lastly, she picked up the battered Grainger aluminum storage clipboard and made sure the steno book was fresh, the pencils sharp, and the digital recorder had fresh batteries. She tossed in her press credentials for good measure.
