“She had a lot of friends who were police officers,” Gloria said. “She told us if it happened again, she’d tell one of them. She said her police friends would look after her because cops and nurses were in the same club, because they got to see the same kind of pain and death. It’s why so many cops and nurses date. Since Hannah knew so many police officers, she felt she’d be all right.”
“Did she mention any of these cops by name?” Hitch asked. “Did she ever say if she’d dated one of them?”
“She kept that part of her life pretty much to herself,” Russ said. “I think, from time to time, she used to date a few. But we never met them or knew their names.”
“Did she have any close girlfriends?” Hitch persisted. “Somebody who might have more details on her personal life?”
“Yes,” Gloria said, looking at her husband. “There was that pediatric nurse she used to go to Vegas with. What was her name?”
“Linda Baxter,” Russ said.
Hitch wrote it down.
We talked to the Trumbulls for another half an hour. They were rightfully angry that for four years the LAPD had been chasing after a pencil sketch and had basically been doing little else.
Russ said, “Every year we get a call from somebody down there. ‘We’re still working on it,’ they tell us. ‘Don’t worry,’ they say. ‘We’ll catch the guy.’” He looked at us and shook his head in dismay. “‘Bullshit,’ is what I say. Nix Nash told us nobody down there gives a damn and he’s right. You can come here and say different, but it’s not hard to guess your motives. We’re not stupid, you know. You guys are just afraid that Nix Nash will solve Hannah’s murder and you’re just over here trying to cover the department’s ass.”
Being perfectly honest, I had to admit that was pretty close to true.
CHAPTER 29
“You go first,” I told Hitch. We were sitting in his Porsche parked outside the Trumbulls’ condo with our crime scene interview books open in our laps. Mine was a cheap spiral notepad. Hitch had his three-hundred-dollar red leather journal embossed in gold. Captain Calloway thought Hitch used it to make notes on new screenplay ideas, but I knew it was only full of crime scene sketches and case observations made in his tight, almost illegible scrawl.
“Why do I have to go first?” Hitch countered.
“Because I went first at Lita’s house.”
“Okay, I think we gotta figure Hannah was probably dating cops. And that really sucks the big one.”
“I agree. Fits right into Nash’s overall premise that we’re all dirtbag killers. He’ll say Hannah and her cop boyfriend got into a fight and the cop dumped her. When Hall and Monroe found out, they were just covering for their fellow officer.”
I tapped my pen on the cover of the spiral pad, then flipped it open and started to write. Hitch did the same. We were silent as we both wrote out our impressions of the Trumbull interview, getting them down while they were still fresh.
When he finished he looked up and said, “Hannah’s dad was right about cops and nurses having a thing. I did that once. It’s just easier. With a nurse you don’t have to explain the darkness you feel, because they feel the same things.”
I nodded. “Even though we’re walking in a minefield here, I’m kind of glad we put in for this case. I feel bad for the Trumbulls. I don’t think they got much of a murder investigation.”
“Me either,” Hitch said.
“I’d sure like to talk to Detective Monroe. We should stay close to his wife. If he calls in early from his hunting trip, he needs to contact us.”
Hitch nodded. Just then my pager went off. A couple of seconds later, so did Hitch’s. We glanced at each other as we dug for our phones. A double page meant trouble.
I hit my speed dial first and got right through to Jeb.
“Get in here fast,” he said. “Bring Hitchens.” He hung up abruptly.
“Don’t bother,” I told Hitch. “It’s Jeb. Wants us both. He’s in comic book mode.”
“Fuck. What’d we do now?”
Fifteen minutes later we were in Calloway’s small office along with Alexa and DC Bud Hawkins. Deputy Chief Hawkins was a tall, angular, dandruff-sprinkled guy who had short gray hair that grew in about four different directions on his head and was also sprouting out of his ears and nose.
Alexa wasted no time: “We’re going to suspend Captain Madrid on administrative charges pending a Board of Rights hearing,” she said.
“For hitting Lita?”
“For that and for mishandling that whole damn situation. She got so involved in that dispute she completely forgot to open her chute. Deputy Chief Hawkins and I are going to appoint Lieutenant Jasmine Nishikido as temporary chief advocate and get her to take over immediately.”
“Given this video, we need to question Captain Madrid again on Lita’s murder,” I said. “That assault could constitute provocation.”
Alexa nodded. “But let’s take this a step at a time. We don’t have any direct evidence tying her to Lita’s murder, so there’s no criminal case yet. I’ll call the DA’s office and put them aboard, but they’ll just tell us to get more evidence before we bring them in or try to book it. That means all we’ve got so far is this administrative complaint.
“We’ve already filled out the IA charge sheet. Captain Madrid’s two blocks away at the Bradbury, but I don’t like picking up armed police officers. We did that once a few years back and it turned ugly and got dangerous. We’re having a sergeant at the jail call her and tell her that one of his detainees has volunteered important information on an IAG case she has going in her division. The sergeant will say that the informant will only discuss it with her.”
“Okay,” I said.
The reason this was a good idea was because all police officers have to surrender their weapons before entering the jail. Once Captain Madrid was disarmed they would be able to safely detain her without incident for an interview. Not that anybody really thought that she’d go for her gat and start blasting, but you never know.
Since Hitch and I were the lead detectives on the Mendez case, we would be the ones to interview her. It was a path fraught with career danger. If we swung and missed, we’d have a lifelong enemy with a grudge who was still a ranking IA commander.
Alexa was ahead of me on this. “I’m going to handle the suspect interview,” she said. “Shane, you and Detective Hitchens will be there, but only to observe.”
Captain Madrid was called and given the message. She hurried to the Central Jail to hear whatever dirt the fictitious incarcerated detainee had to contribute.
She left a Glock 9 in the police lockbox at the jail reception desk. As soon as she was inside an I-room, Alexa entered and handed her the charge sheet. Hitch and I stood behind Alexa and watched as the shock slowly registered on Captain Madrid’s pugnacious features.
“Even though you know all this, I’m required to inform you that the two-week clock on this complaint starts at this time and date,” Alexa told her. “You retain all of your administrative rights and privileges, including your right to a Skelly hearing, which will take place anytime before the end of the two-week period. At your Skelly, you’ll be allowed to bring a defense rep and a POA rep, and will be able to respond to these charges in detail. Until then you are suspended.”
Alexa read Stephanie Madrid her Miranda rights and the captain sat on the bench in the jail I-room glaring as if Alexa had just crawled up through some trapdoor from hell.
“If that charge sheet is trying to suggest that because of some shouting match in the court parking garage last week I had anything to do with Lita Mendez’s murder, you really are insane,” she said. “I don’t know who told you about that, but there are two sides to everything. That sheet hardly captures the incident. What happened is completely open to interpretation.”
“Maybe you should take a look at this,” Alexa said.
She turned on a small monitor we’d brought into the room and played the video the court clerk ha
d taken in the garage. When the video ended, Stephanie Madrid sat there stiffly.
“Comments?” Alexa said.
“I want to see my union rep,” the captain replied.
“You don’t want to make a statement to me and just clear this up for us?” Alexa asked.
“Clear what up? You saw what happened. I pulled up to discuss the case and Mendez verbally assaulted me. I gently pushed her out of my space, and then she attacked me. I didn’t like her, but I sure didn’t kill her. As far as I’m concerned, we’re through talking until I get some professional advice.”
“Okay,” Alexa said. “That’s it, then.”
“Are you planning on holding me here?” Captain Madrid asked. “Because as I see this, all you have is a potential administrative offense. You can’t connect me to the death of Lita Mendez. I have an alibi and I’ve already given Detectives Scully and Hitchens my verifiable time line.”
“Are we finally at that point where you would be willing to submit to a lie detector test?” I asked, trying to keep from sounding pissy.
“What do you think, Detective?” Captain Madrid snapped.
“My intention is to OR you, Captain.” Alexa was referring to a release on Madrid’s Own Recognizance. “However, I’d like you to remain here until you talk to your union rep in case he advises you to cooperate more fully.”
Twenty-five minutes later, Stephanie Madrid met with her rep from the Police Officers Association. Her POA rep was a retired lieutenant named Beau Butler. After they spoke, she refused to give further statements, on his advice. She agreed to a set of restrictions, including the promise that she remain in Los Angeles unless notifying us first. Since she would be tried at IA, Alexa agreed that Captain Madrid could retain the use of her office in the Bradbury Building and the use of her adjutant in the preparation of her defense. Then, escorted by her POA rep, Captain Madrid left the Police Administration Building.
Hitch and I stood in the lobby and watched as she crossed the quad with Lieutenant Butler. They made their way across a wide setback, which separated the PAB from the street barricades designed to prevent a car bomb from taking out the mirrored front walls of our new monument to twenty-first-century policing.
Captain Madrid got into her POA rep’s Lincoln Town Car, leaving her sedan in the parking garage. We watched as they drove up First Street until the car disappeared.
CHAPTER 30
Hitch really is a gourmet cook. For the past several years he has used his two-week vacation time to study at the Cordon Bleu in Paris. His multi-millionaire status has also given him a lot of celebrity friends and he travels in a high social orbit.
At five o’clock he told me that he was invited to a private cooking demonstration being given by Wolfgang Puck at Hollywood mega-producer Neal Moritz’s Beverly Hills home. Very exclusive. Hitch wanted to duck out a little early to catch it.
As he started gathering up his things I said, “I’d like to get some of Captain Madrid’s DNA so we could see if it matches the DNA on that coffee cup we found in Lita’s driveway. She said she hadn’t been near that house for days before the murder, so if it’s a match, it turns that time line she gave us into a work of fiction. Got any ideas how to do it?”
“She’s never going to agree to give us DNA swabs,” Hitch said. “You saw how she was about the poly. Since we don’t have enough evidence yet to get a judge to write a body warrant, we can pretty much forget that.”
“See ya tomorrow,” I said.
After he left I went back to work piecing together Hannah Trumbull’s murder book. I also made an attempt to locate her friend Linda Baxter through Good Samaritan Hospital. They said they would see if they could find her and have her call me back. I left my number.
After about an hour I needed a break from Hannah Trumbull, so I switched cases. There were still a lot of loose ends on Lita’s preliminary evidence pull and street canvas, so I turned back to the list of patrol officer interview notes taken after talking to Lita’s neighbors. Despite the fact that Nash said he’d found her in less than an hour and that she lived right down the street from Lita, nowhere could I find a mention of Janice Santiago being interviewed.
I also checked with the courthouse, got a number for Edwin Chavaria’s parole agent, and called him up. He told me Chava had gone off state paper a few days ago and changed addresses immediately. It looked like Chava had scooped up his TV money and split. Probably wouldn’t be seeing that calabazo again.
My next call was to a friend of mine named Sue Shepherd, who was currently working as an investigating officer at Internal Affairs. After a minute of small talk I asked her, “Listen, do you ever eat in that cafeteria downstairs at the Bradbury?”
“All the time. It’s convenient and the food’s pretty good,” she said. “On nice days people like to eat outside in the patio by the Biddy Mason wall.”
“Do Lester Madrid or his wife ever eat there?”
“Sure do. He and Captain Madrid are fixtures there at least three times a week. What is this?”
“Listen, Sue. I could use a heads-up the next time you see them eating down there. I can’t tell you exactly what’s up, but I can promise you I won’t burn you. How ’bout it?”
She agreed to help me, so I left her my cell number and hung up. About an hour later, my desk phone rang.
“Is this Detective Scully?” a woman asked.
“Yes.”
“It’s Linda Baxter. I understand you were trying to reach me.”
“Yes, Ms. Baxter, I was. I’ve recently been given the Hannah Trumbull cold case to reinvestigate. I was wondering if we could meet.”
“I’m on duty now,” she said. “I could meet you at eight, when I get off.”
“That would be great.”
We agreed to meet in a restaurant called the Short Stop Grill, located just across the street from the Good Samaritan Hospital.
By seven thirty it was time to get going.
I closed up shop and took the elevator down to the garage, got in my Acura and pulled out onto First Street, turned left on Lucas Avenue on my way to the meeting.
I hadn’t driven five blocks when I noticed a white V-TV station wagon tailing me about three cars back. These guys weren’t anything if not persistent. I had no intention of leading them to my witness, so I picked up the dashboard mike and called the Communications Division.
“This is Delta-Fifteen. I need a traffic stop on a new white Ford station wagon heading south on Lucas Avenue at West Third. I don’t have a plate, but the vehicle has a V-TV Productions logo on the side door.”
“Roger, Delta-Fifteen. What is the nature of the problem?”
“It’s a press vehicle and I’m being followed. My case is extremely confidential. Have any available unit pull the wagon over for a vehicle check so I can ditch them.”
“Roger,” the RTO said. “One-Adam-Forty-Five, Delta-Fifteen requests a traffic stop on Lucas near West Third. Vehicle is a late-model white Ford station wagon with a V-TV logo on the door. No available plate number. Detain briefly for vehicle check, then release.”
“One-Adam-Forty-Five roger. ETA that location three minutes.”
I watched my rearview mirror and a few blocks farther on saw a squad car pull in behind the white wagon and light it up. As soon as the V-TV mobile unit pulled over, I turned right and quickly found my way to Wilshire Boulevard.
The Short Stop Grill was right across the street from the Good Samaritan Hospital but didn’t have a baseball theme, which I’d been expecting. Once inside, I realized the name referred to the length of time it took to get served. A lot of doctors who were on short breaks and were tired of hospital food ate there.
Linda Baxter had told me she would be in her uniform, carrying a large red leather bag. I spotted her sitting in a booth at the back of the crowded bar.
“Ms. Baxter?” I asked.
She looked up and smiled. She was a pretty brunette in her early thirties with a full-bodied, vivacious quality. She’d
probably had to chase off half a dozen requests to buy her drinks before I arrived.
“Detective Scully?” she asked.
“Yes.” We shook hands as I slid into the booth.
“Glad you got here. It’s been a hard day and I could really use a drink, but I don’t drink alone.”
We waved over a waiter. Linda ordered a Manhattan. I had a Corona with lime.
“You’re still investigating Hannah’s murder? I thought they had that solved. They even have a picture of the guy.”
“I’m starting from scratch, going over the whole case again.”
“God … poor Hannah. That was so awful,” Linda said with a shudder as the drinks were delivered. “When it happened, I was numb for a week.”
“I just got assigned the case,” I said. “I think you spoke to Detectives Monroe and Hall a few years back.”
“I only talked to Hall. Monroe seemed to always be in court.”
“They’re no longer on the case. Detective Hall was killed in a car accident and Detective Monroe retired.”
I worked my way into it slowly, talking about her friendship with Hannah and their trips to Las Vegas.
“It was fun traveling with her. We both loved to play blackjack, so we’d hit Vegas about three times a year. She was one of those people who didn’t judge you. She saw things for what they were, if you know what I mean. No bullshit.”
“I understand she worked in the ER.”
“She liked it there. She had nerves of steel, that one. Didn’t rattle. Hannah was very passionate about her work. A special girl in all ways.”
We talked for a few more minutes about Hannah and her work at the hospital and then I segued into the threat against her life that occurred two days before the murder.
“She mentioned that, but she never really told me who had screamed at her,” Baxter answered. “A woman. That’s all she’d say. It bothered her, but there’s so much going on in the ER, she didn’t have a whole lot of time to remain focused on it.”
“Was she also dating a police officer?” I asked.
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