Encouraged by my hesitation, Lois pushed on. “Does this mean The Magpie has taken another victim?”
“The Magpie?” I said, beginning to lose my temper. “I have never been able to fathom why you news people insist on coming up with some cutesy-pie name for every dirtbag who commits this kind of crime. The Magpie? Really? As far as I’m concerned, whoever killed that young woman and hung her up in there like garbage is bottom-feeding scum—and I intend to see he gets exactly what he deserves.”
“And what is that?” asked Lois, still thrusting her microphone in my face.
I pushed past, having had enough. “Use your imagination,” I muttered.
Ignoring a continued barrage of questions, I finally managed to duck under the crime-tape barrier. On the other side I joined Deluca, who was conferring with a patrol officer keeping an official record known as a crime scene log, recording the name of each person entering the garden. At my approach, Deluca looked up and grinned. “Hey, paisano. Been making friends with our brothers and sisters in the media out there?”
“Hardly.”
“Roger that. Know what they call a busload of reporters heading over a cliff?”
Having heard it before, I smiled. “A good start,” I replied, displaying my ID to the officer manning the crime scene log. As he began entering my name, rank, and shield number into his record, I turned back to Deluca. “By the way, I grabbed the murder book from the station last night. I’ll get it back later.”
Deluca nodded. “You read it?”
“I did. Now I want you to run it down for me.”
“Sure.” Deluca rubbed his chin, which already displayed a dark, five-o’clock shadow that routinely made an appearance on his face well before noon, no matter how closely he shaved. “We got a call yesterday from the UCLA police informing us that the body of a young woman had been found in the Botanical Garden,” he continued. “I spoke with a Lieutenant Greenly, who commands the university’s Investigative Division. He was more than happy to let LAPD take over, as they aren’t really set up to handle a murder investigation. Banowski and I rolled on it, arriving here around eleven.”
“Who found the body?”
“A couple of art students. Came down to sketch some plants or whatever. The garden opens at nine a.m. on weekends, but no one had been in the area till then. We interviewed the students. Nothing much there. You see the pictures?”
“Yeah,” I answered. The photos in the murder book had showed the victim hung with wire from stalks of bamboo, as if on display. The weight of her body had dislocated both her shoulders, reminding me of a painting I had once seen, The Crucifixion of Saint Andrew, by Caravaggio.
“Grim,” said Deluca. “Whoever did that doesn’t deserve to be breathing the same air as the rest of us.”
I nodded. Death penalty opponents could often argue a good case until they saw something like that, after which they began to have doubts.
Glancing across the street, I noted several additional mobile news vans setting up on Hilgard. A media frenzy was developing, and I had been in that situation before. In a murder investigation, a news blitz was usually a no-win situation for everyone, especially the police. As such, I was still unsure whether I wanted to continue working the case, considering that my past involvement in high-profile investigations had sometimes ended badly. On the other hand, I had become progressively angry at the callous manner in which the young woman had been killed and discarded like trash. “This is going to be a mess,” I noted.
“No doubt about it, paisano.”
I took a deep breath, deciding to put off a decision as whether to continue the case. For now, I resolved to set aside my misgivings and concentrate on elements of the investigation. “Who came out from SID?” I asked, referring to the LAPD’s Scientific Investigation Division criminalist responsible for the collection and preservation of all trace evidence taken from the scene. Although SID had recently split into two new bureaus—the Technical Investigation Division (TID), and the Forensic Science Division (FSD)—most investigators, like me, found it impossible to keep up with changing departmental acronyms and still used the old ones.
“Frank Tremmel,” answered Deluca.
“Good. Did Art Walters from the coroner’s office work the case, by any chance?”
“Yep. Everyone sent out their first-string.”
“Excellent,” I said. I had worked with both Tremmel and Walters on previous investigations, and I knew their skills to be topnotch.
“According to liver temp and the state of rigor, Walters estimated the time of death at somewhere between midnight Thursday and four a.m. Friday—although he hedged the timeframe because the body had been moved,” Deluca went on, referring to his notebook. “In any case, the garden usually closes at five p.m., so we’re assuming the killer dumped the body sometime after that, probably at night.”
“Dumped? More like displayed.”
“Yeah. Sick bastard’s obviously looking for attention. Anyway, we’ve been canvassing for witnesses since yesterday. With all the sororities and student housing across the street, not to mention campus buildings overlooking the garden, it’s a huge area to cover. UCLA police are assisting. We had some guys detailed over from Pacific Division as well. So far no results.
I looked up, spotting a number of UCLA structures topping a rise to the west, most with a view of the garden. “So the question is, how did our guy get in here without being seen?” I wondered aloud.
“Here’s how I have it figured,” said Deluca. “We found what looked like fresh tire marks on the curb at the corner of Le Conte and Hilgard. In addition to a couple of maintenance gates, there are only three entrances into the garden—two up on the ridge off Tiverton Drive, and the third down here on Le Conte. All the gate locks were intact except for a padlock here on the south entrance, which was missing. We’re assuming our guy jumped the curb, cut the lock, and drove in, concealing his vehicle deeper in the garden.”
“Makes sense,” I said. “Late at night, if he timed it right, no one would notice. And once he was in, he would have all the time he needed to hang the body and do whatever else he did in there. Anyone find the lock?”
Deluca shook his head. “Maybe he took it with him. Anyway, I had SID take casts and photos of fresh tire tracks in the dirt. I checked with the groundskeepers. The tire impressions were wider than their maintenance vehicles’ wheelbase. No other motorized vehicles are supposed to be in here, so the tracks might be from the killer.”
“Think we can get a make on the tires?”
“Maybe. SID is currently working with the FBI on that.
“Anything else?”
Deluca thought a moment, then shrugged. “That’s about it.”
“Well, good work, Deluca.”
“Thanks. Too bad it doesn’t amount to shit.”
“It’s still early.”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s take a look at the dumpsite,” I suggested, deciding that Deluca was probably right in his assessment. Usually homicides were solved quickly or not at all. Given the situation, our first line of investigation would be based on the premise that the killer knew his victim, although to date even authorities didn’t know who she was. Assuming we were able to identify her, forensic evidence gathered at autopsy and at the dumpsite would only prove useful once we had a suspect. And aside from checking friends, family, boyfriends, and so on, the most likely way to obtain said suspect was via a witness, informant, or a confession that could be verified with physical evidence. I had a feeling none of those would be forthcoming.
I followed Deluca though an open gate into the garden. Making our way down a dirt path, we proceeded deeper into the grounds, along the way passing a glass-covered bulletin board with a schematic outline of the area. “Where are we headed?” I asked, pausing to peer at the display.
Deluca placed a thick finger on the glass. “Right here, where the stream ends in a pond,” he said, indicating a spot on the map between the gymnosperm
s and the Malaysian rhododendrons.
We set out again, a thicket of palms and man-sized ferns closing in on all sides. The path quickly narrowed, soon becoming too constricted for a vehicle. “The guy must have carried her in from here,” I reasoned. “Has to be fairly strong.”
“Right,” Deluca agreed. “The bamboo patch is right around the bend.”
Just then my cellphone rang. I checked the caller. It was Taylor.
“Hey, Taylor. How did the race go?” I asked, letting Deluca get a few paces ahead.
“I took third,” she replied. “Not bad, considering my lack of preparation.”
“Congratulations.” Then, sensing something in her voice, “Everything okay?”
“Something came up,” said Taylor. “I’ve been ordered back to work.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I’m flying home this afternoon. We need to talk about Nate.”
After receiving Lieutenant Long’s summons, I had driven directly to the Boise airport, accompanied by Nate. Afterward my son had returned to the river in my Suburban, with the plan being for him to remain in Idaho with Taylor, after which the two of them would drive my car back to Los Angeles.
“He’s going to be disappointed,” I said.
“I know. Look, if it’s okay with you, I’ve arranged for Nate to spend the rest of the week up here with friends at Cascade Raft & Kayak. It’s a family-owned operation on the Payette, just down from Banks. They have a kids’ kayak camp and have agreed to let Nate join in—food and housing included. He would start tomorrow.”
“I don’t know, Taylor.”
“It’s a first-class operation, and Nate would absolutely love it. Plus they promised to put him on a plane and send him home when the clinic is over.”
“What about my car?”
“An agent at the Boise field office will drive it back. You should have it by tomorrow night. Here, talk with Nate.”
A moment later Nate came on the line. “Dad, I really want to do this,” he said. “Can I?”
I hesitated.
“Please?”
“Sure, kid,” I finally agreed. “Just don’t drown, okay?”
“Don’t worry. Sara . . . I mean, Agent Taylor, told me that her friends, the Longs, are some of the most experienced river rescuers out there. Not that I’ll need rescuing.”
“If you say so,” I laughed. “Okay, I’ll cancel your counseling session with Dr. Berns on Wednesday, but you’ll need to keep your regular appointment the following week.”
“No problem, Dad. And . . . thanks.”
I had continued to walk during Taylor’s call, trailing a few steps behind Deluca. Upon disconnecting, I joined my partner beside a small pool. From there the dirt path circled around a grove of waist-high ferns, just inside a thicket of bamboo.
“He wired her up over there,” said Deluca, pointing to a stand of bamboo with shoots as thick as a man’s wrist. I noticed that visitors had scratched graffiti into some of the green stems: “I love Toni,” “JW + SS,” and the like. I also noted several marks on the shafts made by the wire used to bind the woman’s arms and legs to the stalks.
As I stood trying to match the idyllic setting with the horror I had seen in the murder-book photos, my cellphone rang again. This time the display read: “No Caller ID.”
“Kane,” I said, accepting the call.
“I’m pleased to see you’ve accepted my invitation, Detective Kane,” said an electronically modified voice.
I felt a chill. “Who is this?”
A long silence.
Then the caller spoke again.
“Let’s play.”
6
Prisoner
Although awake for hours, Ella had been afraid to move.
Suddenly the overhead light came on, once more illuminating her prison in a harsh, unforgiving glare. Ella rolled over, fighting a wave of nausea that had gripped her since awakening. Squinting into the light, she peered up at the webcam on the ceiling, wondering whether the man was watching.
When first regaining consciousness, muddled and confused from the drugs he had given her, she’d had no idea how much time had elapsed in the interim. Later, when her mind began to clear, she had taken a tentative inventory with her hands, groping in the darkness. Her clothes were missing, replaced by what felt like a nightgown. She was still sore from the attack in the parking structure, but not between her legs. She didn’t think he had sexually assaulted her. She would have known.
Or would she?
His hateful collar still encircled her neck. After his initial demonstration, the man had used it a second time when she’d refused to take a cup of pills he had thrust through the bars.
His second shock had been worse than the first.
Afterward, the man’s drugs had rendered her nearly comatose, unable to mount even the slightest resistance. Strangely, she had remained conscious throughout—at least during most of it—as if she were outside her body, watching what was happening from afar.
Though her memory was fuzzy, she remembered being undressed, and makeup being applied, and being positioned in various positions and poses while he worked with his cameras. She thought he might have removed her collar, but she wasn’t certain.
And throughout, emotionally numbed by the drugs he had given her, it had seemed as if everything were happening to someone else.
Later she had slept.
Now Ella shook her head, trying to focus. She was forgetting something.
Oh, God, he told me to shower as soon as the light came on.
What will happen if I don’t?
It was a risk Ella was unwilling to take. With a final glance at the webcam, she swung her legs off the bed and hurried to the shower, again wondering whether he was watching.
She also wondered whether he had turned on the light.
Or was it was a timer?
It was something she needed to find out.
Leaning into the fiberglass enclosure, Ella twisted the handle. Then, reaching down, she tested the water flowing from a spout lower down. The temperature took a few moments to warm. When it did, she stripped off her nightgown and stepped into the tub.
Bath or shower?
Shower.
Get this over as quickly as possible.
Ella closed the shower curtain and lowered her head beneath a nozzle higher up, letting a warm stream of water flow over her neck and shoulders.
Suddenly she remembered her electric collar.
Heart pounding, Ella pulled her head from beneath the spray and fumbled at the shower handle. By the time she managed to turn it off, however, she realized she hadn’t been shocked.
Thank God for that.
After quickly finishing her shower, Ella stepped from the enclosure and glanced around her prison. Atop the sink was a towel, along with her clothes from the previous day. Wasting no time, she dried herself and dressed, determined to cover up before he returned. Afterward she inspected her face in a polished metal mirror above the sink, discovering that her lips had been painted with cherry-red lipstick. Angrily, she wiped her mouth with the towel.
Next she continued a survey of her cell, hoping to find something, anything, that might help her escape. As he had said, the cabinet contained a cache of granola bars and a selection of cosmetics, deodorant, toothbrushes and toothpaste, a box of tampons, a hairbrush, plastic trash bags, and several rolls of toilet paper.
Ella’s stomach rumbled. Realizing she hadn’t eaten since yesterday, she unwrapped a granola bar and ate it as she proceeded with her search.
A self-contained toilet sat beside the cabinet. On the front, a label above the seat read, “Sun-Mar Excel.” A low stool sat at the base, blocking a pullout drawer at the bottom. From the rear of the assembly, a two-inch vent pipe ran to a hole in the ceiling. To her relief, Ella also noticed a privacy curtain.
He doesn’t want to watch me on the toilet.
Is that something I can use?
Inspecting the t
oilet more closely, Ella discovered a pullout handle near the seat, along with directions for rotating some sort of internal drum. Next she slid aside the stepstool and withdrew the bottom drawer. Inside was a layer of dry, darkish material—presumably the final product from whatever composting process was involved. Surprisingly, there was no odor that she could detect.
The final object in her cell was the bed—a thin mattress, a single pillow, and several woolen blankets—the bedding atop a plywood platform supported by a stout metal frame.
There seemed to be nothing she could use to escape, let alone fashion into a weapon.
Not giving up, Ella peered beneath the bed. Near the front of the platform, close to the metal edge where it was difficult to see, someone had scratched something in the plywood.
Lying on her back, Ella scooted underneath. Now she could read the writing. A name: Alexa Kiel. And beside the woman’s name, tally marks—four vertical scratches and a final diagonal in each cluster. There were five such groupings, with an additional two slashes at the end.
Twenty-seven days.
Ella brought a fist to her mouth. It appeared that another woman had been held captive here. She had remained alive for twenty-seven days.
How long will I have?
Tears welled in Ella’s eyes. With a surge of determination, she fought against them.
Crying won’t help. There has to be a way. Something . . .
Wiping her eyes, Ella came to a decision.
I will not die in here, she promised herself.
I will obey him, seduce him, do anything he wants.
And when the time comes . . . I will kill him.
Dead and Gone Page 83
