The Garden of Eden and Other Criminal Delights
Page 8
“She’s also taking us shooting at an off-campus range.”
“What? That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!”
“It’s not that bad.”
“Taking twenty green kids to a range is a recipe for disaster. You’ve had, what? All of two months’ worth of firearm experience?” He scowled. “I wonder if her superiors know.”
“Dad, please don’t interfere.”
“But it’s dangerous—”
“Being a cop is dangerous.”
“At least get your normal training first. Cynthia, I’m not shielding you against a mean instructor. I’m trying to prevent trouble for the lot of you. At least let me talk to Lynne, find out what she has in mind.”
Cindy looked at him calmly. “How would you respond if your daddy butted in?”
Decker started to say something, stopped, and then said, “Is Rigor planning on doing simulation exercises with firearms and blanks?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“I don’t want you to participate.”
“Dad!”
“Cindy, accidents happen, especially when the exercises aren’t well thought out.”
“So what do I tell her? ‘Sorry, Sergeant. Dad says no’?” She leaned forward. “How would it look if I bowed out, not only in front of her but in front of my classmates? I’d be branded as a quitter—a chicken. Nobody would want to partner with me. And they’d be right.”
Decker knew she spoke the truth. He closed his eyes and said nothing.
“I’ll be extra-careful. Okay?”
Decker opened his eyes, nodded. “All right.”
“You don’t look happy.”
Decker pushed his bagel away. “I’m not, but I trust you.”
“Thanks. That means a lot to me.” She touched her father’s hand. “I’ll be fine. And I’ll call you Saturday night.”
After several go-rounds, Angelica Martinez finally found a space in the parking lot of Bootles Outdoor/Indoor Shooting Range. She, Cindy Decker, and Kate MacKenny were fast becoming friends—all of them sticking together, even if the glue wouldn’t hold forever. Martinez killed the motor, got out along with the other two, and stretched. Below the lot sat the shooting range, a flat area of scrub sandwiched between endless waves of hillside. Loud pops broke through the whipping wind. Dark clouds hovered above like a steel plate. “Wow, are my legs sore!” she said.
“Ten miles uphill will do that to you,” Kate answered.
“Aren’t you sore?”
“Beyond sore,” Kate said. “More like into rigor mortis. I hate that woman.”
“That should be her nickname,” Cindy said. “Rigor Mortis. We’d all like to see her dead!”
The young women laughed. Kate pushed wisps of blond hair off her face. “Man, what I wouldn’t give to do target practice on Rigor!”
Angelica said, “You’d have to wait in line—behind me.”
Rigor had lit into Angelica earlier in the morning. Just tore her apart for no apparent reason. Cindy thought Angelica had handled it extremely well, had brushed it off and moved on. But apparently she was still brooding.
It was biting cold. Cindy rubbed her hands, looked at the complex stretched out below. Built for competition as well as target practice, Bootles had several types of outdoor courts, all of them ending in tall steel-plated backstops and ground baffles to catch stray bullets. In the center was a glassed-in tower where a range officer was giving instructions over a PA system to a group of rifle shooters. For protection, the outdoor ranges were walled in by twenty-foot sandbag berms. Beyond them were miles of knolls filled with chaparral and California scrub oak. The indoor-range building sat at the foot of the parking lot.
“Where are all the others?” Kate asked.
“I brought us through a shortcut,” Cindy explained. “My dad lives about twenty miles from here, so I know a couple of tricks. They’ll be here soon. Maybe we can even earn a few brownie points for being the first ones here.”
“Rigor’ll probably just accuse us of trying to show her up,” Kate said. “God, I detest her.”
“Everybody does,” Cindy said. “Baldwin’s ready to—”
“Man, he don’t hate her as much as Holstetter does,” Angelica interrupted. “She rides Holstetter any harder, she’s gonna need reins and a bit!”
Standing erect, Cindy didn’t dare sit or lean against the wall, even though Rigor was seated, drinking coffee. Couldn’t appear weak, even if her feet were killing her. At least it was warm here in the commissary—stifling, as a matter of fact. So much so that someone had opened the window for circulation.
First the morning run, then the hours of calisthenics, then the ten-mile uphill jog, and now two hours of target practice. Cindy was cranky and hungry, looking at the food in the vending machines but not buying. She and Kate had agreed not to eat, wanting to show Rigor they had iron stamina. And so the two of them stood with about a half-dozen other cadets, waiting for an empty slot, listening to a female range officer instruct the pistol shooters in the glassed-in lanes below.
A strong icy draft whooshed through the open window, chilling Cindy’s hands but keeping her awake, clear-thinking. Her eyes focused on the range, studying the trainees who were shooting. Angelica was in Booth 8, her body taut with concentration. At the given signal, she let go with a volley, missing most of center target. At that point Angelica was clearly frustrated. After she had disengaged her weapon, she shoved it into her harness, yanked out her earplugs, and stomped out of the booth and out of sight.
Rigor made a tsk-tsk sound and instructed Cadet Jackson to take Angelica’s place. To Cindy and Kate, Rigor said, “Girl not only has an impulse problem, she can’t shoot her way out of a paper bag.”
Cadet Jackson entered the booth vacated by Angelica. Cindy sighed inwardly, stuck with Rigor for at least another ten minutes.
Rigor suddenly pointed to a couple of empty chairs. “Why don’t you two have a seat? This isn’t boot camp.”
Cindy hesitated, then parked herself, hoping her relief wasn’t too obvious.
“You both come from cop homes,” Rigor commented. “I don’t know your father, MacKenny, but I know yours, Decker.”
Cindy said, “Yes, he’s been around the LAPD for a while.”
“Earned quite a name for himself.”
“He’s a hard worker.”
“Probably never home when you were growing up—right?”
“He was home when it was important to be home,” Cindy said calmly.
“Apparently not. Your parents are divorced, aren’t they?”
Anger swelled inside her. Intellectually, Cindy knew Rigor was testing her, trying to crack her. “Yes, they are divorced,” she said, hoping her voice wasn’t too tight.
“Must have been problems at home.”
“I was young when they divorced, Sergeant. I try my best not to dwell on the past. It’s counterproductive.”
Rigor nodded. “Got all the answers, don’t you?”
Cindy tried a small smile. “Wish I did.”
Rigor stood, went over to the coffee machine, and dropped some coins into the slot. “How do you take your coffee?”
Cindy started to rise. “I’ll get it, Sergeant—”
“Just answer the question, Cadet Decker.”
“Black,” Cindy said. “For both of us.”
Kate smiled appreciatively.
“Only got two quarters left,” Rigor answered. “You two can share.” She reached into the coffee slot and took out the steaming paper cup. She turned around, then suddenly jerked backward as if blown by a huge gust of wind. Black jets of coffee flew upward as Rigor’s head cracked against the cement floor, blood spurting from her temples.
Kate screamed. Cindy raced over and pressed her palms to Rigor’s head in an attempt to stanch the blood. Moments later, several other classmates were at her side. “Get help!” she shrieked to Kate. “Call nine-one-one.”
Kate tore out of the room.
By the twentieth time Cindy had to tell it, the story took shape. It went something like this.
Rigor was standing at the machine, getting them coffee—no, she had gotten the coffee. She turned to face them—them being Kate and her. Then she suddenly jerked backward and fell to the floor. They both heard this awful crack as her head hit the cement. Blood was spewing from her head.
Where did the bullet come from?
Out of nowhere.
Bullets don’t come from out of nowhere, Ms. Decker.
Rational thought dictated that it had to have come from the open window. It couldn’t have penetrated the walls because they were concrete, and no bullet holes were found. The door to the hallway had been closed, so it couldn’t have come from there. It didn’t come from inside the commissary, because the only people there had been Sergeant Rigor, Kate MacKenny, and herself.
Remember seeing anyone out the window?
No. Not a face, not even a fleeing figure.
The inquiries lasted past dinnertime—for Cindy and Kate, for everyone in the commissary, for everyone in Rigor’s class, everyone at the range. And when the police were finally finished there, Rigor’s superiors took her cadets back to the academy for more questioning.
Suspicion hung heavily over the group like a cloud. Woe to anyone who wasn’t in public view when the shooting occurred. Luckily for Cindy, she had Kate and the others to back her up. And vice versa. But there were a few cadets who had been off by themselves—Baldwin, Holstetter, Angelica.
Academy officials took away their guns for testing. They grilled everyone over and over, usually starting with Cindy. She’d been there, been the first to do something. No matter how often she went over what’d happened, they looked at her as if she’d done something wrong!
Did you move the body, Ms. Decker?
No. The only thing she did was apply pressure to the wound, trying to stop the bleeding.
Are you sure?
Of course she was sure! Why didn’t they believe her? She was getting firsthand interrogation experience, she realized—but from the wrong side.
The hours passed, and the story became rote, her words mechanical, devoid of the emotion they had held in the beginning.
Finally, the last interview was wrapped up. Stay close to home in case other questions come up, Cindy was told. Report to the academy on Monday. No classes. The group would be suspended until this tragedy was sorted out.
It was almost midnight when Cindy left the interview room. The worst was behind her, she figured—until she saw her father waiting for her. His face was impassive, his cop face.
Tears came to her eyes. Fiercely, he whispered, “Look down! And when you look back up, make sure your eyes are dry.”
She did as she was told, happy to follow him and his unambiguous orders.
They walked through the long hallway of the old stucco building, past window after window of academy athletic trophies. Her father nodded to familiar faces as they walked along. He didn’t touch her, didn’t talk to her, until they were out of the building and in the parking lot.
Decker restrained himself from hugging her for fear of breaking her bones with relief, simply asking, “Are you all right?”
“I’m . . . yes, I’m . . .”
“I knew I’d worry once you hit the streets.” He smiled grimly. “But I see you’re giving my heart attack a jump-start.”
Cindy hugged herself tightly. “That wasn’t my intention.”
“All that matters is that you’re in one piece.”
“At least physically.”
“Right now physically is all I care about.” He ran his hand over his face. “Come home with me. I”ll drive you back tomorrow.”
She nodded, followed her father to his reconstituted Porsche. Usually, he tore out of parking lots. Tonight he drove slowly, methodically. Neither of them spoke.
He passed up the freeway signs, headed into the dark hills of Chavez Ravine, the serpentine roadways rising and falling at regular intervals. Small bungalows lined the tarry asphalt, dots of light emanating from a few windows. He drove deeper into the area.
Cindy was puzzled. “Where are we going?”
Abruptly, Decker pulled the car over to the curb, turned off the ignition, and slumped down in the driver’s seat.
Cindy’s heart leaped. “Oh, my God! Dad!”
In a calm voice, Decker said, “I’ve been shot, Officer. You’ve got to radio it in. Where are we?”
Cindy was shaking, blind with anxiety.
Her father sat up, ran his hand through his hair. “I asked you a question. Where are we?”
Cindy’s mouth fell open. Her father was okay. More than okay. He was testing her. After all she’d been through today, he actually had the nerve to test her. Spontaneously, she erupted into tears.
Decker waited, doing nothing to comfort her. Then he started the car. “You need to think with your eyes as well as your brain,” he said.
“How could you do this to me after what—”
“That’s especially when you must be on your guard.” He handed her a tissue. “When you’ve been through hell and back and you’re zonked out, bone-tired, hungry, and frazzled. Because that’s when you’re ripe for a slipup. What you need to do is stop, take a deep breath, and make sure your brain’s working. The life you save may be your own.”
Feeling betrayed, she dried her eyes and said nothing. But as they rode on in silence, she realized she was looking at street signs.
“Want to talk about it?” her father asked finally.
“You didn’t have to come down and rescue me, you know.” Weakly, she asked, “Are they planning on expelling us?”
“Don’t know. They’ve got to sort through the details first.”
“You know the details?”
“I’d like to hear them from you.”
Cindy told the story yet another time. “Rigor was uniformly disliked,” she added when she’d finished. “Everyone made comments about wishing she were dead.”
“Including you?”
“Including me. But Dad, no one took them seriously. I don’t know what they’ve told you, but I don’t believe any of us murdered her.”
“Angelica Martinez was angry with her, stomped off the range—”
“She was frustrated.”
“She was alone when the shooting occurred. And this Holstetter guy. Rigor really had it in for him. Dressed him down whenever she could. Isn’t that true?”
“Yes, but I can’t believe . . .” Cindy paused. “Holstetter’s a jerk—but he’s no murderer. Besides, it’d be incredibly dumb to kill her there, out in the open.”
“It wasn’t in the open. No one saw anything. You didn’t see a thing, and you were standing about five feet from her.”
Cindy was quiet for a moment. “Guess my powers of observation need a little honing,” she said.
“Tell me the story again.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. Go on.”
Once again, Cindy recited automatically: Rigor walked up to the coffee machine, put money into the slot, got the coffee. As she turned to face them, something jerked her head back.
Decker interrupted. “Did you hear anything? You’ve told me what you saw. Did you hear anything?”
“No.”
“You were standing above a shooting range, Cindy,” Decker said. “You had to have heard the range officer’s instructions. You had to have heard gunfire pops.”
Cindy bit her lip. “I suppose I did. But at that point, they were just background noise.”
“A gun firing close enough to hit her. No glass to deaden the sound. You should’ve heard something louder than background noise.”
She thought, then shook her head.
“Close your eyes for a moment. Picture yourself back there
. . . right before Lynne turns around.”
“Okay,” she said resignedly.
Decker spoke soothingly. “She’s about to turn around. Right as she’s doing it, her head jerks back. Do you hear anything that corresponds with Rigor’s movement?”
Cindy shook her head. “No . . . no.”
“Bullet just comes flying through the window?”
“I suppose. All I hear is that awful crack of her head smashing against the cement floor. I run over to her and put my hands on the wound, trying to—”
“Which way did she land? Faceup or facedown?”
“Face . . . faceup.”
“How would you explain that?”
Cindy stared at him. “What do you mean?”
“If she landed faceup, how do you explain the crack in her forehead?”
A long pause. “I don’t know.”
Decker said, “Rigor cracked her forehead, but she fell faceup. The people who were questioning you were thinking that you had to have flipped the body over.”
“But I didn’t! I swear I didn’t move her.”
“Could be the impact of the bullet spun her around, threw her face against the wall, and smashed her forehead. Then she bounced off the wall and fell backward, faceup. They question you any more, you tell them to take a look at the back of her head. Should be an indentation there as well.”
Cindy rubbed her eyes. “You know, they kept asking me if I’d moved the body. I kept telling them no. I didn’t understand. I’ve got a long way to go, don’t I?”
“To get where?”
“To get where you are.”
“Talk to me after twenty years.” Decker paused, then said, “You plan on shooting someone in the head, where do you aim?”
“I’ve never thought about it.” She shrugged. “Between the eyes, maybe the back of the head. Shoot when they’re not looking.”
“Bigger surface area. Less likely to miss. Rigor was shot in the temple, right?”
“Yes, she was. What’s troubling you?”
“I’m not sure.” Decker licked his lips. “You didn’t see anyone out the window, you didn’t hear a corresponding pop when Rigor dropped. She was hit in the temple. It’s odd—sounds like a stray bullet, almost. But Bootles is one of the safest ranges around. I don’t get it.” He tapped the steering wheel. “Maybe they’ll get a match from someone’s gun. Let’s hope it’s not your friend Angelicas’s.”