A new tremolo colored the last three words.
She said, “A thing; it. Can they do DNA, find out the sex?”
“Theoretically.” I told her about the case’s low priority.
She said, “Every generation thinks it invented the world, no one cares about history.”
“Are you sorry I told you?”
“Not at all.” She stood, got behind me, kneaded my shoulders. “You are one block of iron, darling.”
“Oh,” I said. “Perfect. Thanks.”
“Full-service girlfriend.” She worked on my muscles some more, stepped away, unsnapped the overalls, let them fall to the kitchen floor. The black T-shirt and a navy blue thong contrasted with smooth, tawny skin. She stretched, flexed each lovely leg. I stood.
“I’m filthy, hon, going to shower off. After that, we can figure out what to do about dinner.”
I was waiting when she emerged from the bathroom, armed with a few restaurant suggestions.
She unpeeled her towel, folded it neatly, stood there naked. Holding out a hand, she led me to the bed. “Time for you to be a full-service boyfriend.”
Afterward, she ran her nails lightly over my cheek. Bobbled my lips with the side of an index finger the way kids do when they’re goofing. I let out a high-pitched moan, did a fair imitation of a leaky drain. When we both stopped laughing, she said, “How are you doing now?”
“A lot better.”
“High point of my day, too. How about Italian?”
CHAPTER
11
I’d heard nothing new about the bones for two days when the Times ran a follow-up piece.
The article was stuck at the bottom of page 15, trumped by water issues and legislative ineptitude, a shooting in Compton, the usual petty corruption by various civic employees. The byline was Kelly LeMasters, the reporter Milo had belatedly called.
The coverage boiled down to a space-filling rehash ending with the pronouncement that “A priority request to analyze the bones for DNA at the state Department of Justice lab is LAPD’s best hope for yielding fresh information on a decades-old mystery.”
The newspaper was in Milo’s hand when he rapped on my door at ten a.m.
I said, “Pleasant surprise.”
He strode past me into the kitchen, flung the fridge door open, did the usual bear-scrounge, and came up with a rubbery-looking chicken leg that he gnawed to the bone and a half-full quart of milk that he chugged empty. Wiping the lacto-mustache from his nearly-as-pale face, he thrust the Times piece at me. “Compelling and insightful, call the Pulitzer committee.”
I said, “Pulitzer was a tabloid shlock-meister.”
He shrugged. “Time heals, especially with money in the ointment.” He flung the article onto the table.
I said, “So you spoke to LeMasters.”
“Not quite. I spoke to His Grandiosity’s office begging for DOJ grease. That was yesterday afternoon. Next morning, voilà.”
“The chief leaks?”
“The chief plays the press like a harmonica. Which is fine in this case because everything’s dead-ended. Social Security can’t turn up records of our Eleanor Green, and I can’t find dirt on Swedish. Even the oldest vice guy I know doesn’t remember it, one way or the other. So if they were breaking the law, they were doing it discreetly.”
He got up again, searched the pantry, poured himself a bowl of dry cereal. Midway to the bottom, he said, “The bones aren’t why I’m here. I never really thanked you for last year.”
“Not necessary.”
“I beg to differ.” He flushed. “If ensuring my continuing survival doesn’t deserve gratitude, what the hell does, Alex?”
“Chalk it up to the friendship thing.”
“Just because I didn’t get all sentimental doesn’t mean I’m not aware of what you did.” Deep breath. “I’ve been thinking about it every damn day.”
I said nothing.
“Anyway.” He used his fingers to grasp the last few nuggets of cereal. Drawing his big frame to its feet a second time, he loped to the sink, washed the bowl. Said something I couldn’t hear over the water.
When he turned off the spigot, I said, “Didn’t catch that.”
“The T word, amigo. Gracias. Merci. Danke schoen.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Okay … now that we’ve got that out of the way … how’re Robin and the pooch? She working out back?”
“Delivering a mandolin.”
“Ah.”
His jacket pocket puffed as his phone squawked.
Moe Reed’s pleasant voice, tighter and higher than usual, said, “New one, boss.”
“I could use something fresh, Moses.”
“It’s fresh all right,” said Reed. “But I’m not sure you’ll like it.”
“Why not?”
“More bones, boss. Same neighborhood. Another baby.”
A city worker, part of a crew planning a drainage ditch at the western edge of Cheviot Hills Park, had spotted the scatter of white.
Unruly toss, strewn like trash, barely concealed by bushes. What might pass for dried twigs at a distance was an assortment of tiny skeletal components.
This baby appeared even smaller than the one unearthed in the Ruches’ backyard. The skull was the size of an apple. Some of the bones were as thin as drinking straws and some of the smallest—the phalanges of the hand—were thread-like.
These remnants were clean-looking. Silvery white, luminous in the sunlight.
I thought: Scrubbed clean, maybe polished. Prepared?
The orange-vested laborer who’d found them was a huge, muscular guy named George Guzman who kept dabbing tears.
Moe Reed stood next to him, pad in hand. His expression said he’d been offering continuous sympathy, wasn’t sure he liked that gig. At Reed’s other side stood Liz Wilkinson, impassive but for soft searching eyes, tool cases on the ground next to her, white coat draped over one arm. Ready to have a go at the skeleton but waiting for the coroner’s investigator to release the victim for further analysis.
The C.I. hadn’t shown up yet. Neither had the crime scene techs, but Liz had gloved up in anticipation. She stood right up against Moe, hips pressed against his. Hard to say who was supporting who.
Guzman stared at the white bones and sniffled.
Reed’s mouth twisted. “Okay, thanks, sir.”
“For what?”
“Calling us.”
“There was a choice?” said Guzman. He took another look. “Man.”
Reed said, “You can go, now.”
Guzman said, “Sure,” but he lingered. Reed prompted his exit by pointing at the yellow tape.
Guzman said, “Sure, sure,” took a step, stopped. “I’ll never forget this. We just had one.”
“One what, sir?”
“Baby.” The word came out strangled. “George Junior. We waited a long time for him.”
“Congratulations,” said Milo.
Guzman looked at him.
Reed said, “This is my boss, Lieutenant Sturgis. Sir, Mr. Guzman is our first arriver. He called it in.”
Guzman said, “I’m always here first. Since we started the job, I mean.”
“What’s the job?” said Milo.
“Making sure water doesn’t collect and ruin the roots of all those trees.” Guzman pointed. “We need to check out the entire area, taking samples of what’s below, then if we need drains, we put ’em in. Few years ago it was done wrong, flooded the archery field.”
“It’s your job to get here before anyone else?”
“No, no, not officially,” said Guzman, “but that’s what happens, I make it at seven ten, fifteen, the other guys not till seven thirty. ’Cause I take my wife to work, she waitresses at Junior’s on Westwood. I drop her off, she gives me coffee, I drive a couple minutes and I’m here.”
Guzman’s eyes drifted back to the bones. “I thought it was a squirrel or something. Dead animals, we see plenty of that. Then I got close and
…” He blinked. “It’s definitely human?”
Everyone turned to Liz Wilkinson. She said, “Unfortunately.”
“Damn,” said Guzman, biting his lip. His eyes misted.
Milo said, “Appreciate your help, sir. Have a nice day.”
His prompt was more directive than Reed’s, a nudge to Guzman’s elbow that got the giant in motion. Guzman plodded toward the tape, ducked under with effort, walked several yards, and joined another group of orange-vests hanging near a yellow city truck. The group stayed there, listening as Guzman regaled them.
Milo said, “There’s one who likes attention. You pick up anything about him that fills your nostrils, Moses?”
“Kind of a crybaby,” said Reed, “but nothing overtly creepy.”
“Run him through, anyway.”
“Already done, boss. Clean.”
“Good work, kid, that’s why you get the big bucks. Any anthropological impressions, Liz?”
Wilkinson said, “By its size, this child might be younger than the first. The teeth will help me judge but I haven’t inspected them because the way the skull’s positioned the mouth is in the dirt.”
“We’ll get you access soon as the C.I. okays it.” To Reed: “Any word from the crypt?”
“Held up in traffic. Best guess is within the hour.”
“What about Crime Scene?”
“They should’ve been here already.”
Milo turned to Liz. “You were notified by the crypt crew?”
She smiled. “By Moe.”
Reed fidgeted.
Milo laughed. “Anything for a date, Detective Reed?”
“I’ll take what I can get.”
Liz said, “I think that’s a compliment.”
Milo said, “Anything else of a scientific nature, Dr. W?”
“These bones look considerably fresher than the first, so you could have a fairly recent crime. But that could also be the result of cleaning or bleaching. From what I can see so far, they appear totally de-fleshed. As to how that was done, I’m a bit puzzled. The most common methods would be mechanical—scraping—or chemical—corrosives, boiling—or a combination of both. But all that seems to be lacking here.”
“How can you tell?”
She let go of Reed’s hand, walked closer to the bones. “Don’t tattle on me to the crypt folk, Milo, but I crouched down and had a good close look.” She held up a gloved hand. “Then I put these on and touched several of the bones because the freshness intrigued me. I was careful not to move anything, there was no disruption of the crime scene. But I wanted to see how they responded to tactile pressure. I also used a magnifying loupe and couldn’t find any of the tool marks you’d get from scraping, or the pitting and cloudiness you’d get from a corrosive bath. More important, the bones felt relatively rigid, as firm as an infant skeleton could be, and with boiling you’d expect them to turn at least a bit rubbery. Especially the smaller bones, those could be as pliable as cooked noodles. It’s possible there’s a new chemical able to do the job without leaving traces but I haven’t heard of it. Maybe something’ll turn up in the analysis.”
“De-fleshed,” said Milo, “but no sign of trauma. So maybe this one is a lab specimen, Liz. Some sick wiseass reads about the first case, decides to prank us with a medical souvenir he buys on the Internet.”
“Anything’s possible but I don’t think so. For the same reason as with the first: You’d expect holes for wires.”
Milo went over to the bones, squatted, a Buddha in a bad suit. “Almost like plastic, with that shine.”
I said, “Is it possible they were coated with something that’s obscuring the tool marks?”
Liz said, “I thought about some kind of lacquering but it would have to be super-thin because normal anatomical irregularities are visible.”
Milo said, “Call the C.I. again, Moses, get a fix on ETA.”
Reed complied. “Half an hour, minimum.”
“Wonderful.”
I said, “Sick joke or murder, with the dump being so close to the first bones, this reeks of copycat.”
Milo inhaled, gut heaving. “Two in Cheviot Hills. Can’t remember the last time we had a murder here.”
Liz said, “The distance to the Ruche home is less than a mile—point nine three to be exact.”
Milo smiled. “Geography’s in your job description?”
Reed said, “She clocked it ’cause I asked her.”
“You did me a favor, honey. Distracted me from thinking about two dead babies.” Ungloving, she took out her phone, walked a few feet to the side.
Milo said, “Moe, soon as the techies and the crypters get here, you and I are heading back to the office to run a search on missing infants. Meanwhile, call Sean. I’ll be wanting him to canvass the neighborhood.”
Moe left a message for Binchy.
Liz returned. “Just spoke to one of my old profs. He’s never seen a specimen without wires and he’s not aware of any lacquer that’s commonly used. But no one knows everything so I’ll stay on it. One bright spot: If these are relatively fresh, DNA’s likely. Speaking of which, what’s the status with the first set? DOJ hasn’t instructed me to send them yet.”
“Start the paperwork, kid.”
Reed’s phone rang. He said, “Hey, Ess-man, whusup? What?”
As he listened, his hand tapped the butt of his service gun. When he clicked off, his face was tight. “You’re not going to believe this, they just found another.”
Liz said, “Another baby?” Her voice caught. All pretense of scientific detachment ripped away like a dangling scab.
Reed said, “Another DB, adult female, gunshot wound, right here in the park, the southern edge.”
Milo’s face was as animated as a frozen chuck roast. He waved a uniform over.
“Keep this area tight, Officer. No one but the techies and the C.I. gets in.”
“Yessir. That mean you’re finished here?”
“Not even close.”
CHAPTER
12
The woman was late twenties to early thirties, dark-haired, medium height, slightly heavy at arms, hips, and ankles. She lay on her right side, the front part of her body shaded by shrubbery. Her dress, short-sleeved and knee-length, was patterned in a pale green mini-paisley with old-fashioned cap sleeves.
One leg rested atop the other, a position that almost resembled peaceful sleep. No disruption of clothing, no obvious sexual posing, but Milo pointed out faint pink rings around her wrists that were probably the residuals of being bound.
A rubber-soled brown loafer encased her right foot. Its mate lay a couple of feet away to the north. Her hair was trimmed short enough to expose the nape of her neck. The bullet hole was a red-black mini-crater at the junction of cranium and spine.
A single shot, fired at close enough range to leave light stippling, entering the medulla oblongata and cutting off the respiratory functions marshaled by the lower brain.
What the papers like to call execution-style, but there are all sorts of ways to execute someone and what this wound and the wrist marks said was a killer in total control leaving nothing to chance.
The two uniforms guarding the scene said she’d been spotted by a jogger. Her bare foot, clean and white amid the greenery, had been the attention-getter.
No jogger in sight. Milo didn’t comment on that as he explored the edges of the scene.
Even without her foot protruding, the woman would’ve been noticed soon enough. This part of the park was relatively secluded but could be reached by any number of pathways or a simple walk across rolling lawn, followed by a brief pass through a planting of gum trees. The jogging trail was a well-worn rut that paralleled the park’s southern border. Where the body lay, the trail veered especially close, maybe three feet away.
Intending for her to be found? A methodical killer eager to show off?
Milo kept looking at the woman. I forced myself to do the same. Her mouth was agape, eyes half open, filmed like
those of a hooked fish left too long on deck. Crusts of dried blood leaked from her ears, nose, and mouth. That and the size of the bullet hole said a small-caliber slug had bounced around her brain like a pinball.
No purse, no jewelry, no I.D. Whatever bare skin was visible was free of tattoos, scars, distinguishing marks.
I spotted additional blood speckling dirt, leaves, a rock. No need to point it out; Milo crouched like a silverback gorilla, examining one of the larger splotches.
He moved to a spot just north of the woman’s legs and pointed. A broken chain of footprints appeared to lead up to the body. A second series pointed in the opposite direction.
Large, deep impressions for both. The same person, a heavyweight. The tracks revealed none of the corrugations you’d see with an athletic shoe or a hiking boot, just your smooth heel-sole imprint lacking trademark or label or idiosyncrasy.
Both sets of prints vanished as soil gave way to grass. Tough park turf had sprung back hours ago, concealing the killer’s entrance and exit.
Milo circled a couple more times, wrote something down in his pad, showed me a pair of depressions in the grass, slightly to the left of the corpse.
Shallow indentations, as if two weighted bowls had been placed there. Easy to miss but hard to ignore once you saw them. The resilient lawn had tried but failed to mask them completely.
I said, “On her knees.”
“Has to be,” he said. “Then he shot her and she fell over.”
“Or was pushed.”
“No bruising or dirt on her face.”
“He could’ve cleaned her off before he arranged her.”
“You think she looks posed? He didn’t put that other shoe on.”
“It was dark, maybe he didn’t notice.”
He crouched, took out his flashlight despite ample sun, aimed the beam between her teeth.
Victim on her knees, check for oral rape.
I said, “Anything?”
“No obvious fluid but I am seeing little white specks on her gums.”
He showed me.
I said, “Looks like fabric. Bound and gagged.”
He waved the uniforms over. Both were young, male, clean-featured, with gym-rat swaggers. One was sandy-haired and freckled, the other had a dark buzz cut and suspicious brown eyes.
Guilt Page 6
