by Rick Mofina
FORTY-EIGHT
Walkie-talkie chatter snapped back and forth on the restaurant set near the financial district where an exhausted stone-faced crew was shooting a TV commercial. Sydowski looked for Louise.
“Sir?”
The tanned muscle-bound security guard placed his hand on Sydowski’s shoulder. “This part of the restaurant is a closed set. You have to leave.”
Sydowski looked at the hand, then at the guard. He opened his jacket, revealing his gun, then fished his SFPD star from his jacket. No other words were required.
Sydowski made his way deeper into the set. Louise was refusing his calls. He had a little time before his next homicide meeting. Before letting him go, Turgeon checked his cell phone and increased the ring volume.
Picking his way through the conversations, young girls with clipboards, the technicians in torn jeans, carrying electrical equipment, the suits drinking over-priced mineral water from ornate bottles, Sydowski saw Louise sitting by herself at a table, crunching on a celery stick, studying a script. She didn’t look up from the pages.
“You here to apologize, or arrest me, Walter?”
“Arrest you?”
“For the crime of trying to help an obstinate jackass.”
“Those are my only choices?” He pleaded into her lovely green eyes. She was still cross with him. “I’ve come to apologize, Louise.”
She flipped her script over, folded her arms. “Go on.”
“I was wrong.” He sat down. “Look, I won’t go into Reggie getting shot because of Wyatt freezing on him. That’s a raw wound with me. You have to understand that.”
“You’ve made it abundantly clear.”
“Louise, I was wrong for the way I treated you.”
“I was only trying to help.”
“I know.” Sydowski’s phone rang. He slipped on his bifocals to study the keypad of his ringing new cell phone. “I liked the old ones better. These new tiny things are a chore.”
“You don’t deserve me, you know?” Louise pulled up her bag to rummage through it.
“I know.” He pressed the right button. “Sydowski.”
“It’s Linda. I’ve just rolled up out front where you are. Horace called. He’s waiting for us at Hunter’s Point.”
“Be there in two minutes.” He hung up and stood. “I have to go.”
“Here.” Louise passed him a brown envelope. Looked like it was from a legal firm. “This is for Reggie Pope. You have to get it to him.”
“What is it?”
“Remember, I had asked my friend to do some quick checking? Well it seems Reggie may have a civil case against the building’s owner, or the city.”
“But Louise, he can’t afford --”
“No fees. He’s doing this as a favor for me.”
Sydowski tucked the envelope in his jacket, kissed Louise on her cheek, then left.
Turgeon drove to the crime lab.
“Everything all kissie face with Louise, Walt?”
Sydowski made a point of not answering her.
“Just remember the golden rule. Women are always right. Men are always wrong. Got it? Repeat after me, Walt. Women are always --”
He fired a dead serious stare at her.
“Oh my. It didn’t go well, then?”
“We’re fine, Linda. Knock it off, please.”
“All right, Inspector Serious. Since you patched things up with Louise, are you going to patch it up with Wyatt?”
Another stare.
“Walt, we could use him to help us narrow things. Ever think of that?”
“He’s a liability. He’s the reason Reggie Pope is picking through garbage. Anything he brings us, his cyber-phantom crap, will not stand up in court. Not with his history. I could just see a defense attorney feasting on his background.”
A block later Turgeon pressed him. “I know we’re building up the physical, but what about the line we’ve kicked around that she met him on-line? Walt, we know full well the country is dotted with homicides by creeps using the Internet to troll for victims.”
“I agree. We haven’t discounted it. We’ve given Wyatt free reign but so far he’s found nothing. Look, I do take that investigative line seriously. I’ve backed us up.”
“How?”
“I’ve made a few calls. We’re covered.”
“I’m your partner.”
“Leo agreed to let me pass Iris Wood’s ISP account information to a friend with computer intrusion at Justice in Sacramento. So far he’s found nothing.”
“Thanks for telling me. You going to let me and Dee query VICAP locally now? We all agree he’s mobile. Maybe we should just make a full submission. What do you think?”
“Too risky. Things could leak to the press. It would be a dangerous gamble at this stage.”
“I don’t know.”
“What don’t you know? Horace has given us some solid physical evidence and a potential suspect pool that he is busting his hump to shrink. We’ve got a shoe impression and the BWI sticker. We can build on this a brick at a time.”
Turgeon parked the car at Building 606.
Horace was at his desk on the phone, finishing a call. After hanging up, he picked up a file folder from his desk. “Have a seat.” Horace wet his forefinger.
“Is this good?”
“It will reduce the pool, but I want to explain.”
Turgeon pulled out her notebook, cueing Sydowski to do the same.
“As you recall, the torn BWI sticker had an array of trace carpet fibers. We concluded analysis for the flock type that gave us Five Star American Skyways and the passenger lists.”
“We’re working hard on the pool of names.” Sydowski lifted his bifocals to stare at Horace’s computer screen.
“Next we analyzed other carpet fibers, and found the nylon type used in cars. I did some XRF work, which basically detects elements found in carpet fibers. Helps me make a distinction.”
“Those the fibers on your screen?” Turgeon said.
“Yes. Now, judging from the color-key, dyes, and other factors, I would suggest it is the type found in rental fleet cars manufactured by Ford.”
Sydowski and Turgeon exchanged glances.
“Could narrow things.” Sydowski made a note.
“I want to caution you, Walt, there are many variables. I’m giving you probabilities that the carpet is consistent with that found in late-model Fords. We’re going out on a limb.”
“Horace, we know. Just tell us the best place to start looking.”
“San Francisco International is served by nine major car rental agencies, including the new one.” Horace handed Sydowski a list. As you can see where I’ve indicated, four of them offered the full-sized Ford Taurus and Mercury Sable models with the type of carpet consistent with the fibers we found from the suspect’s shoe trace.”
“This is outstanding work, Horace.”
“I’m going to do some more involved analysis on the auto fibers to see if I can kick down that list even more.”
During the drive to the Hall of Justice, Sydowski called ahead to alert Lieutenant Gonzales.
“Leo, we’ve got another break.”
Sydowski told him what Horace had found and how they were going to need the cooperation of car rental agencies to show the contracts for Ford Taurus and Mercury Sable models rented at the airport for the same period as the airline passenger list.
Gonzales got things moving fast.
Turgeon was pleased. “I think this is a good day, Walt. How ’bout you?”
“It’s a good day.”
FORTY-NINE
While Belinda Holcomb’s casket was lowered into the ground at a tiny cemetery near the Minnesota-Manitoba border, homicide detectives in Toronto intensified their hunt for her killer.
Reesor and Winslow assembled every detail they had on her murder to feed into a powerful computer program designed to track serial criminals who crossed jurisdictions.
Canada’s version of the
FBI’s VICAP is the Violent Crime Linkage Analysis System, known as ViCLAS. It is administered locally at regional centers and nationally by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. As it is in some states, it is law in the Canadian province of Ontario that police investigating major violent crimes submit their case to the system.
Reesor liked using databases but, like most investigators, he hated using it whenever he had a fresh murder where he had a suspect in custody, a virtual grounder that he was certain was a one-time, I didn’t mean to kill him deal, with no links to anything or anybody other than the sorry humps involved.
The RCMP has adapted the FBI’s VICAP concept, enhancing it by requiring detectives to complete 262 questions on homicides and sexual assaults; every iota on the crime scene, even hold-back.
That’s where Reesor, like most cops, had a problem. He never was comfortable with the law requiring him to give up his hold-back. Often, he felt hold-back was more than critical to a case, it was the case.
Then there was the security issue. There were only several dozen specialists across the country with access to the system. Under special laws, the information they analyzed was classified restricted. It could not be released. Hold-back evidence in case reports was X’d in the system and could only be accessed by a security-rated specialist working with the people who owned the case. The system was a stand-alone network with built in security measures which tracked and recorded everyone who viewed a file.
Still, detectives feared leaks and were wary about submitting cases.
To Reesor, the system was more red tape to add to his burden of paperwork when he should be on the street chasing down leads, bringing in suspects. Often he and Winslow sweated blood for key evidence on a case. The notion of sharing what they had with lazy, sloppy investigators in other jurisdictions sickened him. Sometimes the ViCLAS book was occasionally forgotten until a supervisor reminded detectives of the legal deadline requiring it to be completed.
“Jackie, I swear, sometimes this thing is like writing an exam,” Reesor said two hours after they had started answering the questions.
“Sure, babe, but we know it works. Here’s the autopsy.”
That was the thing about ViCLAS, VICAP, and similar systems. As years went by and more police forces submitted cases and used them effectively, more dramatic success stories surfaced. In one, a twenty-year-old murder was solved when a cold-case squad submitted it to the FBI in Quantico. Within an hour, it was linked to a new homicide in Orlando, Florida, through the killer’s handwriting found at both scenes. In another file, ViCLAS linked the murders of seven hookers, five in Detroit and two across the river in Windsor, to a trucker. Diehards like Reesor were slowly beginning to see the light.
Reesor studied Fydor’s report on the tattered airport code fragment, and the list of airports it could be linked to: Buffalo, Burbank, Baltimore, Abileen, West Palm Beach, Billings, or any of the other cities on his list.
Which one is a link to our murder?
Reesor then submitted all the details he had on the shoe impression, believing that the answers to the case were outside of Toronto.
“Let’s go, Jackie.” Reesor closed his ViCLAS book. His entire case was going out there. Everything.
Reesor’s supervisor signed his submission. It went to the sexual assault squad, which coordinated all of Toronto’s submissions to the ViCLAS provincial center.
The center was located at Ontario Provincial Police headquarters in Orillia, an hour’s drive north of Toronto. Inside the new postmodern building, within the behavioural science section, a ViCLAS specialist entered the file into the computer system. She began searching for potential linkages similar to crimes committed across the province and the country. No immediate links. It was going to take time for further analysis, like checking parolee data banks, other police computer files, and talking to the investigators.
The bright faces of her son and daughter on a mall Santa’s knee smiled back at her from a framed picture as she studied crime scene photos of Belinda Holcomb, stabbed repeatedly in the heart while watching Romeo and Juliet in a Toronto theater. The specialist entered her codes for access to Reesor’s hold-back evidence. Sipping tea from her World’s Greatest Mom mug, she examined every detail three times.
Oh boy. This is data we should move on.
She reached for her telephone, punching a special speed-dial number.
The line was answered on the first ring.
“Lardner.”
“Art, it’s Sadie. How’s your caseload?”
“Up to my armpits in work before vacation, why?”
“I’ve got one for you that you should submit to VICAP in Quantico. He looks mobile. You should see this one now.”
“All right, kid.”
The RCMP’s Technical and Protective Operational Facilities base is some sixty miles north of New York’s border with Canada. It sits on Ottawa’s east side between expressways and sprawling suburbs nearly hidden on a forested hilltop overlooking strawberry patches, apple orchards, and disappearing dairy country. Razor wire tops the chain-link fence lining the grounds. A black steel gate with a guard booth, security cameras and restricted-access warnings, protects the building. A bison head, the seal of the RCMP, rises specter-like out of the building’s soft gray stone over the entrance. The sounds of birdsong, flapping flags, and the hum of the traffic do not betray the deadly serious work going on behind the dark green windows.
Inside the building, among its secret sections, RCMP Sergeant Arthur Lardner, a seasoned ViCLAS specialist with the highest-level security clearance within the program, was analyzing the fresh Toronto case. Lardner had talked directly with Reesor and Fydor several times over the phone about the critical details.
“Be careful with our file, Lardner,” Reesor said.
When he was satisfied he knew enough, the next call Lardner made on the file was to the FBI’s VICAP coordinator in Quantico who handled RCMP submissions. The Mountie told his FBI colleague about the new case.
“We better get that into our program right away,” the FBI specialist said. “Shoot it down on the encrypted fax. You’ve got the number.”
FIFTY
After Reed finished the Folsom feature on bad cop Donnie Ray Ball, he massaged his neck. Something about the Las Vegas murder gnawed at him as he scanned his desk, cluttered with newspapers, notebooks, unopened mail, reference books, cassette tapes and the files Carla Purcell’s mother had given him. Something about the case. A key thread of information he had read in one of the files. Sifting through the chaos, he couldn’t find the page, or remember the details. The documents were jumbled, gathered hastily in his Las Vegas hotel because he had overslept, nearly missing his return flight.
No one knew the real reason he went to Las Vegas. The trip was a gamble that paid off with a few bits of new data. Now, he wanted to secretly dig into the Las Vegas murder. Check its similarities with Iris Wood’s case. Both victims were the same type. In both cases their corpses were posed. The bridal shop in San Francisco. The statue in the Las Vegas church. The Pieta. Maybe there was something there. What was the thing that had slipped his mind? Flipping through the Purcell files of anti-death penalty brochures, printouts of e-mails with friends, day-care schedules, his frustration mounting as he snapped from one page to the next. It could be the key to breaking the story wide open. A fragment he suspected the Vegas cops missed. Think. He was reading the files in his Las Vegas hotel room. Did he read something before falling asleep? Or had he dreamed it? Where was it? What was it?
“So, Tommy. How was prison? Make any new friends in the big house?” Wilson said.
“Sure. Donnie Ray and I are an item now.”
“I’m happy for you.”
Wilson’s bracelets clinked as she began going through her notes for a story. Reed turned to his computer, concentrating on researching the Pieta on the Internet and his Las Vegas files.
“Hey, Tom,” Wilson dropped her voice to a confidential level. “Brader called me at hom
e last night. Asked me how I was doing. Tried to make small talk. Weird huh?”
“Weird.”
Before leaving Las Vegas, Reed had stopped at the Church of Mary the Compassionate Virgin, where Carla Purcell’s corpse had been found with the Pieta, in an alcove to the right of the altar. Reed had gone there to see the statue, a copy of Michelangelo’s Pieta in Rome.
“So what should I do about it?”
“He’s a pig. Stay away from him.”
According to the church pamphlet Reed picked up, its Pieta was glazed plaster, an exact replica made from protective shipping casts taken from Michelangelo’s marble original decades ago when the Vatican had allowed its treasures to be shown for a few years around the world. It was the only time in some 500 years the great work had left Rome.
“He’s not my type but he’s kind of cute.”
“He’s married. He’s got two daughters. He just wants another notch in his belt.”
“Maybe I want another notch in mine.”
Reed stared at Wilson, her eyes twinkling, flashing one of her just-kidding grins.
“Molly. Stay away from him.” Reed shook his head, returning to his work, clicking through Web sites about Michelangelo. The Pieta, known as the “pity or sorrow,” stands nearly six feet tall, depicting Mary with her son, the dead Christ, in her lap moments after he was taken down from the cross. It is one of the world’s greatest representations of eternal love. Commissioned in the late 1400s by a French cardinal to immortalize his gravesite.
But why was Carla Purcell, a lonely Las Vegas daycare worker, put there? Why pose her like that? Was this a signature? It had to be the same guy who posed Iris Wood in the bridal shop? Maybe. Maybe not. If so, what was the link? Where was that document? That page he thought he’d read? Maybe the answer was there?
His line rang.
“You’re back,” his wife said.
“Ann, I was just going to call you. Brader ordered me to the newsroom directly from the airport to finish the feature. He pushed up the deadline. It’s going tomorrow, I’m just wrapping up.”
