by Baxter Clare
"In a bit," she nodded. Nook left with Gough, but a few minutes later the silence of the squad room was interrupted by the rest of her detectives. Frank gave up the notion of any more work and followed them out.
Because the Alibi was the cop-friendliest bar closest to the station, it wasn't uncommon for it to be jammed on a Friday night.
Gough and Nookey possessively defended a large table while Johnnie arm-wrestled at the bar with a uniform in his street clothes.
"'Bout time you got here," Gough grumbled. "I thought we were going to have to call the Guard to help us save the table."
Johnnie was bigger than his opponent, but as she took a chair Frank saw his arm go down. He motioned for Mel to buy the victor a beer and joined the nine-three table.
"Where's the Fire Truck? And the Taco Loco?"
"Girl-red's tired and Diego's at a niece's birthday party."
"Those Mexicans are always going off to some damn party," Johnnie pointed out amiably. Bobby deftly changed the subject, asking what had happened to the guy on the 405 who was threatening to shoot himself.
"He did it, man. Blew his brains out all over the right-hand westbound. Helicopter news crew was broadcasting it live. They got the whole thing."
"Son of a bitch still has the highway closed," Ike complained, appraising the crowded room. Like Johnnie, he was divorced and always looking for an available woman, though they were as rare at the Alibi as a clear day in July.
"What was his problem?"
"Them. Us. Little green men. Who knows. He wasn't playing with anything near a whole deck."
"Where's No?"
"Said he'd catch up to us," Johnnie answered, as Nancy came up. He tried to pat her ass, but she blocked his hand with a hard forearm and resumed writing in her pad, standing safely between Gough and Nookey.
"That's right, darling, we won't hurt you. Johnnie there just doesn't have any manners," Nookey crooned.
"Don't I know it. Hey, guys," she greeted the late arrivals. "Pitcher?"
Knowing the tab was Frank's, she smiled, directing the question at her.
"Hey, Nance. Start with two and keep 'em coming."
"You got it."
Frank absently watched her whirl away while the conversation turned to jabs at Fubar. As their supervisor, Frank had made it clear a long time ago that she wouldn't tolerate ethnic or minority slurs while they were on the badge. Except for Johnnie and Gough, this prohibition was still respected after-hours, so Foubarelle and the rest of the brass became their favored focus of derision. Although Frank didn't usually contribute to the conversation, she rarely defended her higher-ups and was restrainedly amused, knowing her own back got covered with shit when she wasn't around.
Nookey was moaning about a 60D Fubar had sent back because of spelling errors. "Man, I feel like I'm in sixth grade with Mrs. Beaman again." He shuddered. "I still have nightmares about that bitch."
The word nightmare made Frank wince at the involuntary images that her own had conjured up for her: Mag's bewilderment, Frank's helplessness, and blood everywhere. Frank jerked her head up to find Nancy approaching and distracted herself by focusing on the waitress.
She'd been at the Alibi almost as long as Frank had been a cop. Watching Nancy twist agilely through the crowd, Frank noted the sprouts of gray at her temple and the lines that weren't there twelve years ago. Then she chided herself, Look who's talking.
Nancy set the pitcher down next to Frank and whispered, "I saw that look. Is this finally gonna be my lucky night?"
Frank grinned slightly into the fist against her mouth, the clouds blowing out of her eyes for a moment. Nance had been offering for years, and many times Frank had been tempted.
"Huh?" Nancy laughed, though they both knew the answer.
By the time Bobby and Johnnie got to trading gridiron stories, only Frank was left with them at the nine-three table. She was relaxed and easy, her long legs up on a chair. She'd heard all their stories before but was mildly entertained by their one-upping. It crossed her mind to lift her pant leg and show them the fat scar under her patella where Junior Kensington had tackled her.
She'd been playing football in the street with her cousins and their friends. Junior had hit her hard and laughingly clambered off her, then got white when he saw the blood staining her jeans. Afraid she was going to throw up from the pain, Frank had peeked at the tear in her pants and seen a gash exposing her bone. She'd told her cousin to help her up, but she couldn't step on the leg. The world had started getting gray and narrow, and Frank had bit down on her lip to keep from passing out. Her younger cousin had run to get his mother, who had rushed Frank to the hospital, cursing all the way. They'd stitched the tendons back together, but it was months before Frank could walk on that leg again.
A hint of a smile played across Frank's mouth as the boys moaned about being tackled on Astroturf, but her nostalgic languor vanished when Noah walked in with Kennedy. Reluctantly, she pulled her legs off the chair and sat up straight.
"Hey, Lieutenant."
The drawl was like nails on a blackboard. Frank clenched her back teeth, acknowledging Kennedy with a quick bob. Noah clapped Frank's shoulder and took the chair next to her. Within seconds, Nancy appeared.
"Hi, No. I haven't seen you in ages. Did they kick you off the squad for being too handsome?"
"Yep, that's it. How'd you know?"
"It's obvious. Bring another mug?"
"You got it."
"And you, hon?"
Nancy's smile to Kennedy was returned.
"Ma'am, a Coke, please."
"Sure you don't want a shot of rum in that?" Johnnie asked.
"I reckon straight'll do me just fine."
"Only sober cops I've ever seen have got God," Johnnie said challengingly.
"Or a wife like Leslie," Bobby muttered. She hated him drinking after work, but once or twice a month he'd go out on Friday night anyway. He and Noah had swapped plenty of sleeping-on-the-couch stories.
"You're not gonna get all preachy on us are you?" Johnnie dogged.
"Darlin', what was your name again?"
"Johnnie."
Kennedy nodded. "Tha's right. Johnnie." Then she leaned toward him and said, "Son, I don't even know you yet but you're already gettin' on my nerves."
"Wait'll you get to know him," Noah laughed, "then he'll really piss you off'."
Johnnie waved disgustedly, muttering something about uptight bitches, and moseyed off to the men's room. The young narc turned her attention back to Noah. "So, tell me more about this dickhead I'm gonna be freezin' my ass off for."
"Not a whole lot to tell. We could be barking up the wrong tree, but it's more to go on than nothing. Just keep in mind that much of what we've got is theory, and be flexible."
Kennedy nodded her understanding. Noah explained their logic while Frank watched the young woman. The hick act was good, but twice now Frank had seen daggers winking under the guise.
"We've got some physical evidence on this guy. Size, weight, hair—not much else. Most of this is from the description the girls gave us, and we had a witness who saw someone matching this description where the third girl was raped. The wit estimated his age as somewhere between late twenties to early thirties. Frank likes the younger end of the range."
"How come?" she asked Frank, who shrugged and addressed her beer mug.
"He's smart but he's not confident. That usually comes with experience and/or age. He's eluding us but he's not mocking us. That says he fears us to some degree, respects us. You see that more in younger perps. The level of anger in these attacks would be hard to sustain for years on end. He's probably been holding this in for a long time and can't anymore. This guy's canny, though. I think he'd do it more often if he thought he could get away with it.
"As it is, he's committing these perps on a fairly regular basis. For the most part his assaults are premeditated and inherently risky, suggesting his caution is overruled somewhat by his compulsion. Again, we can look
at the escalation of his attacks—as his confidence increases he spends more time with each victim and becomes more brutal. An older man might have already plateaued out, not exhibit such a steep learning curve. He'd probably be more aggressive from the git-go, take much larger risks. And I'd expect his vies to be more carefully considered. Our guy seems to settle for whoever comes his way, also characteristic of a younger personality."
"And you think he's going to go for me just because I'm young?"
Noah looked at Frank. He sighed when she didn't answer and picked up the slack. "Young, and in the right place at the right time. And if you act right, he'll sense that you're tentative, vulnerable. Hopefully he'll be attracted to that. Almost all the girls we talked to were real hesitant and uncertain. Somewhat afraid of us."
"Don't you think that's just normal for a girl who's been traumatized and is talking to the police?"
There was the merest hint of a challenge in Kennedy's questions. It irked Frank, but Noah didn't seem to notice.
"Sure, but you can see it's a basic part of their personality, too. It's their vulnerability that appeals to him. It makes him feel confident and in control. It doesn't look like he's actually stalked any of his vies, but he definitely prefers a certain personality, so he must be watching them at least for a little while."
Nancy paused at their table and poured the rest of a pitcher into Noah's glass.
"You guys ready for another round?"
Frank nodded and Nancy asked, "Who's your friend?"
Kennedy smiled, and before Noah could answer she shook Nancy's hand and introduced herself. Frank watched the women boldly appraising each other. Their mutual interest was suddenly clear to Frank. She drained her mug, chagrined she hadn't picked up on Kennedy sooner.
Nancy smiled, "Nice to meet you."
"Likewise," Kennedy replied with disarming attention.
Nancy blushed lightly as she wiped at the table, asking Frank if she'd eaten today. Frank thought for a moment before answering no.
"Are you going to?"
Nancy smiled down at her, but Frank was intent on Kennedy's wide grin.
"No," she said grimly.
"Fra-ank," the waitress chided, then turned to Kennedy. "How 'bout you, hon? You want something to go with that Coke?"
"I reckon I would," she said, raking Nancy's solid figure just long enough for the innuendo to register. Then she sat back and asked nonchalantly, "Ya'll got 'ny french fries in that there kitchen?"
The way she said there sounded like they-uh and Frank was amazed anyone could think that sticky inflection was charming. Kennedy's blatant flirtation was equally astounding. Nancy wasn't even a member of one of the most homophobic police forces in the nation and she was more discreet.
"I reckon we could rustle some up for ya," Nancy teased, playing with the accent.
"Well, that'd do me fine. An' how 'bout a salad, ma'am? Could I get one a them, too?"
"Only if you start callin' me Nancy. Ma'am sounds so old. I'll bring you a menu."
"Tha's awright. Just gimme your house salad, with ranch dressin', an I'll be happier'n a pig in a sty."
Just when she thought Kennedy couldn't get any lower, she impressed Frank by taking out a shovel and digging deeper. Noah chuckled, and Frank cut him a withering glare.
"Where were we?" Kennedy asked, innocently crunching an ice cube.
Frank pushed away from the table.
"I'm out of here. See you in the morning."
"Aw, come on," Noah protested. "We just got here."
Despite his pleas to stay, Frank slung her jacket over her shoulder and walked away, suddenly inexplicably angry. If she had turned around, Frank would have seen Kennedy smiling curiously at her retreating figure.
They didn't joyride together anymore. The boy missed that. He and his father had fun then, cruising, picking out the whores. The old man always let him pick whichever girl he wanted. The boy liked the younger girls, the younger the better. His father was really good about that. They'd drive for hours until the boy found a girl he liked.
But now that all was gone. The boy was alone with only his magazines and his memories.
17
The next morning, Frank looked out the rainy window and thought briefly about going back to bed. She was cold but refused to turn the heat on, rationalizing that this was southern California. She settled for a hot shower and upped the heat in the car as she drove in to the office. Walking into the squad room, Frank was disconcerted to find the enfant terrible scrunched in Noah's chair, surrounded by open case folders.
"Hey," Kennedy yawned, circumspectly taking Frank's measure. Faded jeans, old boat shoes, and an LAPD sweatshirt gave Frank a deceptively laid-back appearance. With her hair messed from the wind and her cheeks flushed by the cold, Frank looked almost sexy. She shattered the effect by grunting, "What are you doing here?"
"Shy and hesitant isn't my normal MO," the younger detective replied lazily. "I was just goin' over the reports on all these girls, trying to absorb as much of their personalities as possible."
Frank nodded, unlocking her door. Then she did an unusual thing: she closed it behind her, leaving Kennedy staring and tapping a pen against her teeth.
An old sax man wailed plaintively as Frank pressed through her notes. Oblivious to Kennedy's Circean presence on the other side of the door, Frank was doing what she did best.
As a rookie, Frank had been fascinated by what she saw on the streets and she'd quickly learned what they didn't teach at the police academy. How to feel fear and work around it. How to shoot with your left hand while you were moving. How to watch a cop die and not go crazy. How to turn all your senses up when you were out there. How to know, without knowing how you knew, when a lie had gone down. She'd enjoyed the theory in the academy, and the rigorous mental and physical training, but the street was reality. There should have been a sign on the way out of the academy that read: THIS IS WHERE THE TRAINING REALLY BEGINS.
Frank believed in procedure but had learned to entertain other options when necessary. The chances she wouldn't take in her personal life she took through her work. She was physically unafraid, at ease with leadership, and willing to sacrifice personal comforts. Her patience and determination lent themselves well to police work, but one of her strongest assets as a detective was her curiosity. If a case wasn't closed, Frank wasn't happy. She needed to know who'd done it and why. Frank had spent her life fixing problems and couldn't relax until they were solved. The hide-and-go-seek for clues, the hunt and chase for the perps—this was as close as Frank came to being playful—and profiling particularly intrigued her.
It was a stretch to look beyond the physical evidence. That's what cops were trained to rely on. But an eleven-month fellowship at Quantico had showed her how to use the available physical evidence to gather intangible psychological clues. Part craft, part science, profiling was particularly helpful in tracking down repeat, violent offenders. Scientifically, profiling utilized behavioral clues the perp left at the crime scene, clues that indicated a perp's unique behavior patterns. For instance, a sloppy, disorganized crime scene could often be traced to a sloppy and disorganized offender, suggesting possible physical and behavioral distinctions about the perp.
And because people were capable of infinite permutations, the parameters for one sloppy perpetrator would not exactly match the profile of another. Being able to assemble the clues and predict the most likely set of behaviors for a given offender was part of the craft. Its inherent ambiguity made profiling an imprecise tool, but one that could be used with excellent results to narrow a list of possible suspects, hence narrowing the scope of the investigation and concentrating resources where they had the best chance for success.
Frank had no suspects in the Agoura case. Just plenty of victims. She needed to learn as much as possible about them before being able to fathom their perp. Frank laid out their pictures in the chronological order of the crimes. The most immediate distinction was the racial heterogen
eity—three Hispanics, eight Caucasians, one Black. Serial perps usually targeted a specific race and stuck to it. This guy didn't seem to care. That he was hitting outside strict racial lines said something in itself.
The girls were all pleasant and average-looking. There was nothing exceptional about any of them, and that very blandness was suggestive. Maybe the perp didn't want anyone too extreme, too threatening. This would indicate he had a narrow range of life experiences and would be put off with unfamiliarities.
The assaults were not personal. None of the living victims knew their attacker, and apart from his direct assaults he had not engaged them in any other manner. She kept searching the display of photos, pausing to read each girl's pedigree. Nothing stood out as connected. She couldn't pin a common association, activity, or person to all twelve girls. None of their bios matched. They were from low to middle incomes, and though two-thirds of them had been accosted in a park, the other third were assaulted near high schools or in urban settings. Some were in junior high, some in high school, some in elementary, one was a runaway.
Frank sighed and stretched. She got up to change the music, absently trading the jazz for Faure's Requiem. She turned up the volume, bowing her head as she listened to the first stanza.
Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis thundered though the small space, and Frank thought, grant them eternal rest and let perpetual light shine on them, indeed. She lost herself in the grandeur of the introduction, and when it ended, she opened her eyes. The girls stared up at her.
Cassandra Nichols smiled doe-eyed and gap-toothed. Claudia Menendez smiled too, contrasting sharply with Frank's memory of her heartbreak and puzzlement. Even the ones he'd left alive he'd managed to kill somehow.
Alright, buddy. Let's go one on one. You and me.
Frank was finally ready to get into his head, but first things first. Frank pulled out a VICAP form and started filling in the offender information section.
"Always start where you are," she muttered out loud. Joe Girardi had told her that her first day in Homicide. Answering the questions on the FBI form, she ended up with a long list of the perp's data. Armed with that, Clay's tape, and her own limited knowledge, she played with the information and the options it suggested, starting with a physical description of their perp. He was a big man with brown hair. None of the girls could remember anything remarkable about his body or the feel of it against them, so he probably wasn't too skinny or too fat. If he didn't have a good image of himself, he probably wasn't concerned with keeping up his physical appearance. The Troupe witness had said maybe he was slightly overweight.
