Raul Arredondo, a husky, hawk faced young detective who often worked with Stepanovich, came to his feet and stepped back to allow Stepanovich a view of the tiny corpse on the floor: a girl whose age Stepanovich guessed at about nine years old, dressed in pink taffeta, white panty hose, and shiny patent leather shoes. There was a small, bloodless opening below her chin and an enormous, gaping exit wound on top of her head, exposing wet brain tissue. Her wide brown eyes and small mouth were open in death. A few feet away, a woman Stepanovich guessed to be the child's mother was being restrained by two other women as she rocked back and forth, sobbing hysterically.
A feeling beyond anger overwhelmed Stepanovich. Like many cops, he'd become inured to violent death: gory gang murders, suicides, blood splashed traffic accidents, and drowning victims staring up at him from the bottom of swimming pools. The sight of a dead child, though, still pierced him to the core. "Damn," he heard himself saying.
"She caught a stray round," Arredondo said, trying to hide the emotion in his voice.
Detective Captain Bob Harger passed Stepanovich and stepped up onto a nearby pew. Only a few years older than Stepanovich, he was attired in a short-sleeved white shirt and pleated trousers secured by a black weave pattern leather belt. On the belt were two four-inch barrel revolvers in zebra skin holsters.
"Officers, take your commands from me!" Harger shouted in a foghorn voice that reminded Stepanovich of the officer survival lecture Harger regularly gave to police academy recruits. He pointed his right hand as if it was a gun: "I want a rope line from here to the door." Then his left pointed the opposite way: "Give me all witnesses over here in this corner. Stepanovich, keep this area clear."
Stepanovich gave a "Yes sir" to the order and moved to obey. As he ordered wedding guests toward the rear of the church a TV news crew stepped inside the door. The camera focused on Harger.
"Seal the front door!" Harger shouted to a uniformed sergeant. "No prints and photos until the detectives finish." With a few more commands, Captain Harger turned an utterly chaotic crime scene into a "manageable police problem," to use the lexicon of the in service training classes.
As far as Stepanovich was concerned, Harger was a born leader. He wasn't just a champion on the police handball court, but actually taught a class in the sport. Not only was he a decorated Vietnam War veteran, but a major in the Army Reserves. And it was well known he had shot it out with bad guys more than once during his career. But perhaps most of all, Stepanovich admired Harger's humility: he preferred to chug beers with the men rather than schmooze with the brass. He was an ass kicker, a policeman's policeman, in direct contrast to many of the up and coming young LAPD lieutenants. Stepanovich and other street detectives referred to these policemen as pogues: aggressive, ass kissing yuppies who excelled at nothing more than scoring high on the written portion of promotional examinations.
In fact, one of the most oft told LAPD war stories concerned Harger. As Stepanovich heard it, in a struggle with an armed robber for a weapon Harger had managed to turn the barrel of the gun toward his opponent. As the desperate man scrambled frantically, Harger had smiled broadly, then fired the weapon directly into the man's mouth. Perhaps because the legend fulfilled the subconscious wish of every cop who'd ever felt his bowels weaken during such a struggle, the story had become a Los Angeles police legend. In some versions of the tale the crook, whose teeth were blown down his throat, was a dope dealer. In others he was a child molester.
"Harger the Charger, a man with a whole bucket of balls," said Detective C.R. Black, a tall, rangy man looming behind Stepanovich.
Black looked much older than his thirty-five years. He had worked as a hod carrier in Bakersfield, California, before joining the department, and though he had a red and leathery neck as a result, his face held the toxic pallor common to cops who preferred working nights. His slicked back black hair was thinning, the roots smothered by years of wearing a black uniform hat. He was wearing cowboy boots and a brown, Western style polyester suit jacket that reeked of tobacco smoke. "Stones," Black said. "A basket of fucking stones."
"A real street cop," said the boyish, freckled Detective Tim Fordyce, standing to Stepanovich's right spinning a roll of evidence tape on his index finger. His detective badge was pinned to the lapel of a green corduroy sports coat, the only jacket Stepanovich had ever seen him wear. Fordyce was a meticulous, frugal young man who lived with his elderly parents, liked to talk computers, and professed to live for the weekends he spent in his Winnebago. Stepanovich liked Fordyce, but because he always seemed to avoid taking a definite position on anything, considered him to be less than stalwart.
Two hours later, the atmosphere in the church had changed. Frenzy was replaced by orderly and dull police procedure as men collected shotgun pellets, wadded them into small clear plastic bags, and measured and remeasured ballistic distances. Photos were retaken, and potential witnesses were interviewed.
Because he spoke Spanish, Stepanovich's job had been to interview these potential witnesses. As with virtually every gang murder, no one interviewed, even those who'd been within a few feet of the victims and perpetrators, admitted seeing anything.
Stepanovich found this response unsurprising. Unlike the black gang murders in South L.A. based on disputes over the sale of narcotics, retaliation murders committed by Hispanic gangs were based strictly on gang rivalry. It had been that way ever since the Mexican immigrants arriving after the turn of the century had settled in East L.A. and found themselves clinging to others from Zacatecas, Guadalajara, or Tecate. Gangs had formed and through the years loyalties had never weakened. Every building and every wall in East L.A. was tattooed with gang placas: coded challenges that glorified individual gangs and marked territorial boundaries: the graffiti of death.
One of the last potential witnesses left to interview was a thirtyish Mexican man with a Fu Manchu mustache who was slouching in a pew close to the door. As Stepanovich sat next to him, the man opened his eyes and sat up.
"May I have your name, sir?"
"Albert Garcia."
"Were you sitting here when the shooting occurred?"
Garcia nodded.
Stepanovich wrote his name on a fresh sheet of paper. "What did you see today, Mr. Garcia?"
"I didn't see nothing," Garcia said, rubbing his eyes as if he'd awakened from a long nap. "I didn't see shit. "
"Anything you tell me will be kept in confidence," Stepanovich said, noticing Garcia's grime caked fingernails.
"That don't mean dick in East L.A."
"Sitting here would give someone a wide open shot of anyone coming in the door. There's no way a person could miss seeing what went down."
"I saw the same thing everybody else did," Garcia said. "The door flies open and this dude comes in shooting."
"What kind of a gun did the man have?"
Garcia looked about at the remaining wedding guests staring at him and shrugged. "I got my ass down. I didn't see nothing."
"Did the man say anything?"
Expressionless, Garcia shrugged.
"How many shots were fired?"
"Three or two, I think. The sound hurt my ears. That's all I know."
"What was the man wearing?"
"I don't remember."
"What did he look like?"
Garcia rubbed his nose. "Don't remember."
"You couldn't have missed getting a good look at the guy."
"He was a Mexican," Garcia said. "That's all I know." He exchanged a smirk with another man sitting across the aisle.
"Would you recognize him if you saw him again?" Stepanovich asked coldly.
"If I did, I wouldn't tell you."
Because Garcia was the twenty seventh witness he'd interviewed, Stepanovich wrote the number twenty-seven in the upper right hand corner of the report form and drew a circle around it. As he did, a mordant thought occurred to him: tomorrow or the next day there would be another shooting somewhere and the numbering of another list of fruitless
interviews would start all over again.
"Can I go now?" Garcia asked.
"Where can you be reached during the day?"
Garcia recited the address of the gas station where he worked, and Stepanovich entered the information in the proper section on the report form. "You can go.”
As Garcia stood up and sauntered down the aisle toward the door, Stepanovich made a final note by Garcia's name. It read: "Probably saw it all. Reinterview. "
After the last of the witnesses had been interviewed, Stepanovich and the other three detectives gathered in the sacristy, the only place in the church where they could speak without being overheard. Captain Harger, standing in front of a tall armoire bursting with colorful vestments, waited patiently until the men had quieted down on their own rather than demanding order. As usual, Stepanovich was impressed.
Harger aimed an index finger at Stepanovich. "What do we have?"
Stepanovich took out his notebook and flipped to a page. "The shooter arrives in the bed of a red pickup truck. He fires once, blowing victim number one into the church. Shooter follows him inside, shouts 'Eighteenth Street,' fires twice more, and hits victim two. The shooter is described as a male Mexican wearing county pants and a white T-shirt. In his late twenties or early thirties, using a piece that is most likely a sawed off twelve gauge."
"If anybody recognized the asshole, they aren't talking," Black said.
Harger turned to Arredondo. "Outside?"
Arredondo adjusted his trousers. He flipped open a pocket sized leather notebook with the letters "L.A.P.D." tooled across the front. "The old lady who runs the taco stand across the street saw the shooter jump into the bed of a red pickup truck for the getaway..." He turned a page. "A postal carrier two doors away says there was a getaway driver, possibly one other dude in the passenger seat. She says she won't testify."
Harger turned to Fordyce. "What do the people at records say?"
Fordyce ran his fingers through his thin brown hair. "The computer shows no red pickup truck tied to any known Eighteenth Street gang member. But once I get on the machine myself, I'll be able to check other criteria."
Harger nodded and Fordyce fell silent. "Physical evidence?"
Black held up a small, clear plastic bag containing shotgun wadding. "Nothing but some wadding and pellets. Nowhere to go with them really."
Harger made eye contact with each man: a brief glance that, as far as Stepanovich could tell, was devoid of condescension. "The Chief authorized this special unit and he expects results. This is our first case and I want every clue taken as far as it will go. If it means working all night, gentlemen, I hope you like coffee. If you need special equipment, just ask and ye shall receive."
"With all due respect, sir," Arredondo said, "some gang murders are just unsolvable."
Harger cleared his throat. "I picked you four for this assignment because you've all worked East L.A. and know the M.O. of the gangs. There's going to be a lot of overtime, and if it gets too much for any of you, just say the word and I'll have you replaced. No hard feelings. But as long as you're in this unit, I want you out there among 'em. I want the gangbangers in this part of town hit like they've never been hit before. As to whether a case is unsolvable? We'll talk about that after every peewee, every veterano in East L.A. has been turned upside down and kicked in the face. I want these punks hassled, their shit turned over. When they see you coming, I want them to know darkness has fallen."
There was a heavy, almost embarrassed silence for a moment after Harger had finished. Stepanovich could hear the others breathing in the tiny room.
"May I ask a question?" Black said.
Harger nodded.
"What can we do to solve a gang murder that a divisional homicide detective can't?"
Harger made a sardonic expression. "Realistically, we may not be able to make a case on every gang shooter. But what we're going to do is show these pachucos there's a price to pay every time they pull the trigger. We'll be answering directly to the chief of police and no one else. And the Chief tells me he isn't going to be worried about the details of how we do our job just the results. The chain of command is him to me...to you. No adjutants or commanders or captains nosing in. That spells 'elite unit,' gentlemen, and I hope you read that loud and clear."
Stepanovich admired the turret like manner in which Harger revolved his head to make eye contact with each one of them.
"Stepanovich, you're known as the gang expert. Tell us what happened here today. I'm talking the big picture. "
"This church is located in what Eighteenth Street considers their territory, sir. Last week Payaso, victim number one, and some of his White Fence pals, including the groom Smokey Salazar and a couple of other veteranos, Gordo and Lyncho, insulted Flaca, one of Eighteenth Street's women, by pinching her ass as she walked through Hollenbeck Park. Today's move is retaliation."
"An insult," Harger mused. "Eighteenth picks a shooter, drives him to church, and ends up killing a child?"
"That's the way I read it."
"Do you think Payaso knows who shot him?"
"Gang members always know the members of the other gangs," Black said before Stepanovich could answer.
Harger nodded and put his hand firmly on Stepanovich's shoulder. "I want you and Arredondo to do the hospital follow up," he said, making a turret turn. "Black, grab a couple of blue suiters and recanvass the neighborhood. Fordyce, make the computer hum. Get a list of every red pickup truck registered in East L.A. from the department of motor vehicles, and let's dig out the names of known Eighteenth Street shooters and their associates."
Black cleared his throat. "Elite unit or not, it may not be possible to stop the gangs from killing one another. They've been doing it in this part of town for a hundred years."
"All I'm asking is for you men to trust me and give me your best effort, I'll take the heat for any failure. But frankly, I've studied each of your backgrounds and I'm confident that with a solid team effort, we can hit the gangs like a steamroller. If I didn’t believe that I wouldn't have accepted this assignment from the Chief."
"Count me in," Stepanovich said to break the sudden silence in the room.
"Me too," Arredondo said.
Black rubbed his hands together. "I say, let's go to work."
****
THREE
On the way to the county hospital, Stepanovich turned onto Third Street and cruised past the places of his childhood: old brick buildings, a tortilla factory, a mom and pop market once owned by his best pal Howard Goldberg's father, and a twelve unit stucco apartment house occupied by mostly Serbians and Russians and in recent years by undocumented workers from Peru and Colombia. The tiny two-bedroom house where his mother lived, where he'd spent his childhood, was on Vega Street, less than a block away.
Farther east, he cruised past Evergreen Cemetery, a grassy expanse of graying and blackened tombstones bounded by a chain link fence. As a child the cemetery had been his favorite place for kite flying. Now, bordered as it was by a freeway, a service station, and some rotting wood frame dwellings housing extended families of illegal Mexican aliens, the urban graveyard seemed to him the ugliest piece of land in Los Angeles.
He remembered hot summer nights when he and Howard Goldberg, guided by the bat vision of childhood, would race about between the tombstones and launch commando style raids on the neighborhood ice cream truck that passed by the cemetery every hot night at about nine. Out of the darkness he would race into the dimly lit street and hop up onto the rear bumper of the truck. Holding on with one hand to the light fixture affixed just above the truck's small rectangular door, he'd lift out cartons of Popsicles and strawberry sundaes and drop them gently to the street for Howard to pick up and carry back into the cemetery for a robber's feast. At the age of ten, it was the ultimate excitement, and they were lucky enough never to have been arrested. Unfortunately, in a night of horror he'd never been able to forget, Howard had tripped in the street and been run over by a spe
eding drunk driver, crippling him for life.
Even at that early age, Stepanovich had wanted to be a policeman when he grew up. His father, a railroad switchman, had died of a heart attack when Jose was five, and the dominant male figure in his life became his father's brother, the clean featured, sharply dressed burglary detective Nick Stepanovich.
Uncle Nick had a permanent charge account at the exclusive Murray's Clothiers and enough girlfriends to start a harem. He always seemed to have liquor on his breath, but never seemed drunk. He brought gifts, mostly food, to the Stepanovich household every week. In fact, on Serbian Orthodox holidays the take included expensive turkeys, hams, wheels of cheese, candies, and enormous baskets of fruit. His frugal mother was always evasive when he asked about Uncle Nick's gifts. But once the inquisitive child found a printed greeting card inside the colored cellophane covering one of the elaborate Christmas fruit displays Uncle Nick had brought over the day before the Serbian saint's day. It read:
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Melvoin:
I hope you enjoy your stay at the L.A. Biltmore Hotel.
Larry Hess
General Manager
The kindly Nick took Stepanovich to boxing matches at Olympic Auditorium, always flashing his badge to get in, and to burglary division picnics. Once, having stopped by the house to drop off a large package of porterhouse steaks and a case of canned goods while on duty, Uncle Nick spotted a fugitive meandering down the street. Stepanovich would never forget Uncle Nick, like a magician, actually pulling a gun from under the jacket of his sharkskin suit, chasing the crook, and single handedly tackling, wrestling, and handcuffing the man. With the neighbors watching in awe, Nick dragged the prisoner to his detective car and tossed him into the backseat like a sack of grain.
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