by Baxter Clare
"Jennifer Peterson. A couple weeks ago."
"Right. And before that?"
"Agoura, in October."
"And before that?"
"What's your point, Frank?"
"My point is he's averaging about a victim per month. Meaning he's due."
Frank sat back and let that sink in, taking a hit off of her beer. "Do we just sit back and say, 'Hey, not my problem anymore. Not my job'?"
Noah stared hopelessly at the traffic out on Slauson. "What about my cases? When in the hell am I supposed to work on those?"
"I'll help you with them, do what I can without a badge. Hell, I'll even write your fucking reports for you. Just go talk to these people for me. I can't do it, No."
"Shit."
"Feel them out, get a roster of kids on the football team for the last twenty years. Get copies of all the old yearbooks. We're looking for a white guy in predominantly black/Hispanic schools. It won't be that bad."
Noah just repeated his prior expletive and rose clumsily from the booth.
"Thanks for lunch," he said with heavy sarcasm, and left her sitting there. She finished her beer, feeling bad about adding to his work load, though encouraged they were taking action. Frank wanted this perp. She saw dead kids all the time, but now and then one got to her, especially when the perp was still out there. She'd known when she was interviewing the rape victims that she wasn't going to be able to drop this case until the guy responsible was dead or behind bars.
She paid the tab and walked out, a cool breeze from the west making her glad she had a sweatshirt on. She trusted Noah would do as much as he could, as quickly as he could. She was just going to wait to hear from him. It was maddening that she couldn't do the work herself, but she was determined to be patient. Meanwhile, she'd distract herself by taking care of Kennedy.
The first time it had been almost like a dream. He could see himself watching her. She was having a picnic with her mother and another woman and two little boys. He was within earshot of them but was pretending to read a newspaper propped against the steering wheel.
He heard her asking her mother if she could go to the other end of the park. She was bored. The mother reluctantly shooed her off. He watched her, and before he lost sight of her he started the car and drove to the other end of the park. This end was never as busy as the fishing ponds or the picnic areas. There weren't any cars in the lot. He parked near the bathroom and stood next to the men's room. He still didn't really know what he was going to do. He was nervous and sweating, and he felt his heart pumping loudly in his head. Peeking around the corner he saw her walking up the road, swinging a little stick in time to a song she was singing.
He waited. Her song came closer, a soft sound, and he smiled. She was right outside the bathroom. Oh god, he could hear her, she was so close and alone. He looked. She was reading a placard, still singing. He moved from the men's room entrance. What happened next was like he was someone else.
He grabbed her quickly from behind, had her neck in the crook of his elbow before she even had a chance to turn and see him. Somewhere in the calmer depths of his mind he realized that was a good thing. It bolstered his confidence. She tried to cry, but he quietly told her to shut up or he'd kill her. He wondered if he meant that. He didn't know, but it felt good to say it. Holding her against him he dragged her into a thick stand of brush, never letting her see him. And he didn't want to see her. He only wanted one thing.
28
One of the worst things about being ROD was waking up in the middle of the night and not having anywhere to go. Frank picked up the pysch text by her bed, hoping it would distract her from the thoughts that came loose in the night, like boats silently slipping their moorings. After an hour, nowhere closer to sleep, she finally threw off the comforter and headed for the garage, sharply aware how empty the house was.
Kennedy had left a few days ago, promising to call Frank if she needed anything. Her leaving was inevitable, but Frank hadn't expected to miss her. Leaning out the patio door for a moment, Frank noted the thick, damp fog, and thought of the night they'd gone to the beach. Kennedy had pointed out the few stars that managed to outshine the city lights. It had been a long time since Frank had really looked at them. They were beautiful.
Flustered, angry with her own foolishness, Frank retreated inside, slamming the door loudly. She was alone and could make as much noise as she wanted. She flipped on the scanner and turned the volume up, forcing static and chatter into the emptiness.
She started her workout, registering the 12-Adam calls and mostly ignoring the rest. A 7-Adam domestic, woman assaulting a man with a cooler, reminded her of an old partner. Literally up to his ass in women, Petey had a wife at home and a girlfriend in every sector of Figueroa. One night he'd stopped during their break to knock off a quick piece while Frank waited outside in the unit. She was thinking about what she was going to make for dinner when Petey hauled ass out of the complex. His pants were flapping open, he had his gun belt in one hand, his hat in the other. The girlfriend was running after him in a slip, her hair all wild, and a woman Frank had never seen before was right behind them. The women were hollering in Spanish. Frank couldn't make out what they were saying, but the girlfriend kept slapping Pete with a cast-iron skillet while the other woman jabbed at him with a mop. He'd screamed at Frank, "Drive! Drive!" and she'd scooted into the driver's seat. Pete barely missed her lap as he dove in on the passenger side. Frank gunned away, glancing at her partner. He was bleeding and trying to catch his breath.
"Guess she wasn't in the mood," Frank had noted dryly.
"Christ," he'd sworn. "We're in the kitchen, and I'm puttin' it to Marta, and this woman comes in and starts screaming. I'm trying to figure out what the hell's going on and I look around and it's Luz!" Luz was his girlfriend on 52nd Street.
"How the fuck was I supposed to know they're sisters?" he'd moaned.
Frank had heard the expression, "The clothes make the man," but she'd never seen proof of it until she started patrol. It was true: women were fools for guys in uniform. She was musing whether it was the outfit or the persona attached to it that turned women on, when a dispatcher called a 3-Adam on a possible 187 at Dorsey High School.
Frank slammed the treadmill's emergency stop. Dorsey High was just north of Culver City. The 3-Adam call was being handled by the Southwest Division, bordering Figueroa's north side. A possible homicide at a high school near Culver City. At dawn on a weekday. Frank yanked her towel off the machine and sprinted to the dining room table, grabbing car keys and her old .38. It was one of three revolvers she owned, and the one she carried since she'd been forced to turn over her Beretta. She slipped the holstered weapon on over her wet T-shirt, zipped a sweat jacket over it, and slammed out the front door.
Traffic was minimal, and though she didn't beat the KTLA news van to Dorsey High, she was still there before Southwest homicide. The sky was graying to the east, but there wasn't enough light for the news cameras to get good shots. Headlights from three radio units lit an area behind the school. Frank's heart somersaulted when she saw two patrolmen taping off a section of bleachers on the football field. Half a dozen onlookers, the news crew, and curious cops were trampling the scene. Frank rolled out of her Honda, thankful for the LAPD emblazoned across her back.
Immediately Sally Eisley trotted up to her and Frank held up a warning hand.
"Sally, this is Southwest's call. I just stopped by to see if I could help. I don't know anything, and even if I did I would be in no position to say."
"You just happened to be in the neighborhood at quarter after six?" she asked cynically.
"No, I was on my way home from a jog and picked it up on the scanner. I'm just another curious onlooker."
"Do you think this could be—"
"Excuse me."
Frank strolled away and quickly commandeered the scene, ordering two uniforms who were milling around looking at the ground to clear everybody back a couple hundred feet and stay bac
k.
"Who the hell are you?" the burly black uniform asked.
"Lieutenant Franco, Homicide," Frank answered.
"Do you have your ID, ma'am?" he persisted.
Frank turned on him sharply.
"Hey genius, do I look like I'm dressed for work? It's at home on my dresser, if you want to go get it for me. I picked this up on the scanner after my run. Now can you get your job done or do you want to let a few more people walk around in here?"
Frank's deliberate belligerence was only too familiar to the cop. He retreated sullenly, letting the detective approach the bleachers. When she lifted the white sheet, she felt a jolt of excitement.
Slumped between the first and second rows was a naked female, about 5'4", one hundred pounds. Frank squinted in the poor light. She looked like she was probably Hispanic, but maybe Caucasian. It was hard to tell around all the bruising. She was wedged on the flooring between the first and second tiers, like she'd had too much to drink and had slipped between them. Despite her ungainly position, it was obvious that she'd been posed. Her legs rested demurely side by side on the first row, arms carefully crossed in her lap. A small pool of blood had seeped out from under the girl's buttocks, and Frank quickly noted the absence of bruising below the knees or around the face. Frank stared into her dull eyes, wondering what was the last thing she saw.
The posing was a twist, but Frank knew it was him.
You've really gone all out this time, haven't you? Did you stick around to admire your handiwork?
She scanned the people on the edge of the tape. The news crew was standing around, bored and distracted because they couldn't get a good shot until the body was covered and pulled out. The cops were hanging out by one of the units, talking to each other. Not one of them was talking to the handful of gawkers.
Frank carefully retraced her steps. Addressing two of the cops from their name tags, she told one to start a scene log and the other to check for witnesses. She questioned the responding cop, who said the call came in anonymously. There was no one on or around the scene when they'd arrived.
Inside, Frank grinned wickedly, glad this was going to be RHD's nightmare. She glanced at her watch, wondering how much time she had left before the real detectives arrived. She decided to risk one more glance at the body and peered under the sheet. Just as she picked something off the body a man behind her asked, "Franco! What the hell are you doing here?"
Frank turned with a slight smile and a handshake for the Southwest detectives. The detective who'd greeted her was a small man in rumpled, mismatched trousers and blazer. His name was Mark Cherry, and his partner, who was half his age and twice his size, was Aidan Gerber.
"Hey. You should be thanking me. Before I got here all those shit-for-brains were walking around in here like they were looking for a contact lens."
"Okay, thanks," Cherry said. "Now what the hell are you doing here? And weren't you in that OIS?"
She repeated her jogging story. Cherry looked under the sheet and whistled. Gerber remained mute. Come to think of it, Frank didn't know if she'd ever heard him talk.
"She took a lickin' and stopped tickin'," Cherry mused. Gerber was writing in a notebook. Frank decided she'd better leave while she could.
"Good luck," she said to Cherry. He broke away from his study of the body to look skeptically at Frank. Off-duty detectives didn't just show up at scenes for the hell of it. Frank tried to ease past Sally, but the reporter sidled over to Frank, asking, "Can you at least give me a description of the body?"
"A young female," she answered. "I'm sure Cherry will tell you more. Or Gerber. Hey, does he ever talk?"
"I don't think so," Sally grinned.
Frank was feeling particularly benevolent and she wished Sally luck, too.
"Lieutenant?"
Frank was just about in her car. She turned, guardedly.
"You're still Relieved of Duty, aren't you?"
Frank nodded, wondering if there was anybody in L.A. who didn't know about her suspension.
"Do you think we could arrange an interview to talk about the shooting, I mean, your role in it and how you felt? We'd approach it unofficially, a human drama type of work."
Oh, sure, Frank thought, that's what I want—my human drama broadcast to a couple million people.
"Sally, I'm sure you know whenever there's an officer-involved shooting, there's an investigation. While that investigation is underway I'm not at liberty to discuss the incident one way or another."
"You've suddenly slipped back into cop-talk on me, Lieutenant."
"Maybe we can set something up after this is all cleared up," Frank appeased.
"I'll hold you to it."
With a brief and charming smile, Frank said, "I don't doubt that for an instant."
Having made her successful getaway, Frank stopped at a diner to think and make some notes while the scene was still fresh in her head. A young man, Pakistani she guessed, poured coffee and took her order. While she was jotting notes, four tattooed cholos sauntered in and took seats at the counter. Her peripheral vision saw one of them swivel in her direction and say, "Pow, pow. Look at the placa."
Frank ignored him. Duly noting the obvious similarities between the cases, what was intriguing her was the body's placement on the football field. She couldn't have asked for a better tie-in to her latest theory. He'd gone to a lot of trouble to get her body onto the bleachers. Frank hadn't seen any drag evidence on or around the body, so he must have carried her.
You wrapped her up and carried her.
Frank stared at the small piece of fuzz she'd taken off the body. They'd been all over. Frank was sure they belonged to a blanket. She squinted at the fiber. It looked blue. That wasn't much help in finding their boy right now, but it might help later.
You wrapped her up in a blue blanket and carried her around a high school on the corner of two main drags.
Remembering the morning's fog, Frank wondered if he'd deliberately used it for concealment. Still, it was a huge risk. The guy must be confident of his physical prowess and his surroundings. He knew exactly what he was doing. There was nothing accidental about this dump. Very calculated, premeditated, and dangerous. It was important for him—a big jump. The others were just practice, like the rapes had been practice before the murders.
Frank's ham and eggs came, but she just picked at them. She stared out the barred window, the cholos dimly reflected against the dull dawn.
And why'd you choose Dorsey for this big event?
Did he work there? Had he gone to school there, played football there? Because this last move was so bold, she felt the school was important to him. Frank was helpless without her badge, but she'd do what she could over the phone. Later she could use Noah to get them into Dorsey's records. Hopefully she'd beat RHD there. Even if she didn't, they probably wouldn't check into the athletic records right away, and Frank felt that was the place to start digging. She was sure their boy had gone to school somewhere nearby. Given his affinity for the area, it just made sense. Sooner or later he had to pop up in the system.
The cholos had finished eating and were leaving. The one with the big mouth stopped at her booth, saying, "Hey, Blondie."
When Frank looked up, he leaned in and flashed his sign, hissing, "Rifamos."
She nodded unconcernedly, keeping her mouth shut as she thought, Yeah, yeah. You rule this shit heap. Keep walking, Essay, or I'll rule your asshole with a .38.
Frank watched them pile into a Chevy and peel out into Vernon's building traffic. Her thoughts went right back to Dorsey. The posing fascinated her. She was sure it was critical.
Did you want her to be seen, like a trophy, or was she there to see you? You posed her like a spectator, but for you or for someone else?
The girl hadn't rigored yet, so she couldn't have been there for long. If he'd wanted her to see him, to watch him, he'd have given himself more time with her. It was more likely that he'd placed her there for someone else. Who?
Frank envisioned herself on the field in uniform, the noise of the crowd, clapping, calls, whistles.
Who's watching me? The coach? Family? Friends? The other players? Who am I trying to impress? Girls? Do they laugh at me? Am I shy, ugly, stupid?
Frank didn't get any feeling that the vie had been posed for a female to see. It was a masculine setting. Players and coaching staff would be the most likely to see her there, and grounds crews, too. The girls were symbols. Props.
I'm just using them...to show somebody something. What? What do I want to show you? And who are you? I'm obviously proving I'm capable, I'm in control. I'm saying, "Look at me! Look what I've done!" Who'd be here that I had to prove something to?
Frank stared at her half-finished plate, wondering if the show was for his peers. Not likely, because that would encompass his whole school experience. He was focusing on or around the gridiron. She narrowed his audience to either teammates or a coach.
I'm a big guy, but maybe the other players gang up on me. Maybe they corner me in the shower, use me like a girl, like how I'd use a girl.
Frank sat with that, feeling his shame and rage and humiliation.
No. I'd lash back sooner if it was kids my own age. Uh-uh. I've been building up to this, been hanging on to it for a while. This is someone I can't fight. Someone special. Someone who has power over me. Someone bigger, older. A coach?
A warm kick in her gut told Frank she was on a good track.
What did he do to me?
Frank stared blindly into her coffee cup.
There were so many things he could have done. So many. And I'd have been helpless to do anything about it. Who would I tell? Who'd believe me? And maybe he was my friend...
Frank hunted the room for a phone. She got up and asked the waiter if they had one, holding her jacket open with her hands on her hips. He glanced nervously at the gun under her arm and nodded her behind the counter.
"Behine da door," he said in a thick accent. Frank cradled the greasy receiver against her shoulder and dialed Noah's number.
