Taylor shook her head. “You’re a strange guy, Kane.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Taylor hesitated, then pushed on. “I should have known that Mark and I would never work as a couple. I’m a Sagittarius, and he’s an asshole.”
“I hear you,” I chuckled.
“What I didn’t say at the Scotch ’n’ Sirloin was the reason our marriage imploded.”
“He’s a batterer.”
Taylor nodded. “At first it was just an occasional slap. But as time went on, things got worse. Afterward he would always say he was sorry, promising it would never happen again. Several times he even cried and brought me flowers, and everything would get back to normal. Then the cycle would start all over, getting worse each time.”
“And you accepted his apologies.”
“I loved him, and he wasn’t always violent. And when he was, I thought it was my fault. I was sick, Kane. Pitiful, huh?”
During my patrol days, I had seen my share of domestic violence. Although I knew a few LAPD field officers who still considered family disputes to be low-priority calls, I had learned to take them seriously, as a significant number eventually resulted in homicide. Of the thousands of women murdered nationwide each year, almost a third die at the hands of husbands and boyfriends. I also knew that there were various reasons—emotional, economic, religious, even hostage-like syndromes—that caused women to remain in abusive relationships.
“Were you afraid to leave?” I asked.
Taylor nodded. “I felt trapped. Trapped and scared. I thought that if I tried to get out, his violence would escalate. I . . . I felt worse than trapped. I felt helpless. He told me if I left him, he would hurt me in every way possible. I was afraid he might kill me.”
“You didn’t report any of this?”
“No. Everyone adored Mark. People thought he was the perfect, loving husband. I didn’t think anyone would believe me—not even the police.”
“I’m sorry, Taylor. What finally happened?”
“During my last visit to an emergency room, an attending physician didn’t buy my story. He called the police. Although I stuck to my fabricated version of what had happened, Mark flew into a rage when we got home.”
“What did you do?”
“I left. I didn’t take anything. I just got in my car and drove. I wound up staying with my sister, Jeannie, in Detroit. I got some counseling while I was there, which opened my eyes to what was going on. Afterward I got a three-year domestic violence restraining order against Mark. Once the DVRO was in place, I filed for divorce.”
“Good. ”
“And aside from several court appearances during our divorce, I never saw Mark again,” Taylor finished. “Until Sunday night.”
“After our meeting with Ingram?”
Taylor nodded. “When I got home, he was waiting on my doorstep. He said his law firm had opened a second office in Santa Monica, and that we would be seeing a lot more of each other.”
“What about the restraining order?”
“Expired. I never renewed it. After all those years, I thought everything was over.”
“What happened next?”
“He’d been drinking. He insisted on coming inside.”
“And you let him?”
“I was terrified, Kane. I know it doesn’t make sense, but all the old fears came flooding back. PTSD, maybe. Whatever the case, I was in the nightmare again, powerless, worse than ever. He told me he had repurchased his gun collection from his brother—weapons that had been taken from him per my original restraining order. When I told him to get out, he grabbed me, knocked me down, punched a hole in my wall. And I didn’t do anything. I’m so ashamed of myself . . .”
“You didn’t do anything wrong, Taylor.”
“I didn’t do anything right, either. Instead of standing up to him, I ran outside when I had the chance. He was gone when I returned, but I know he’s coming back.
“I swear, I’m going to make your ex-husband wish he had never—”
“No,” Taylor interrupted. “This is something I have to handle myself. And I will.”
“But—”
“I need to handle this, Kane. On my own. Do you understand?”
“Not really. But okay, if that’s what you want. Just know that if there’s anything I can do, I’m here.”
“I know,” said Taylor. “I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” she went on, her voice breaking. “I’m so disappointed in myself. And I’m embarrassed to be so weak. The sad thing is, part of me believed I didn’t deserve any better.”
“From where I stand, I don’t see anything you need to be embarrassed about,” I said gently. “You deserve the best, Sara. As for being weak, that’s bull. You’re a strong, capable woman—one that any guy would be lucky to have.”
Taylor smiled sadly. “Glad you think so.”
During our conversation, Callie had continued to prod me with her piece of driftwood, attempting to get me to play. Finally taking pity on her, I grabbed the stick and tossed it up toward the beach house, keeping her clear of the water. As she bounded off, I noticed Allison standing outside on our deck.
Taylor saw her, too. “Give me a minute with your daughter, okay?” she said.
“Sure.”
“And thanks for listening to my sorry tale,” Taylor added as Callie returned, tail wagging, stick in her mouth. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I threw the stick again for Callie, watching as Taylor stepped over the seawall and joined Allison on the deck. Their figures were silhouetted in light from the house, and although I couldn’t hear their conversation, I could tell from their body language that their exchange didn’t begin well.
Ignoring Callie’s prodding, I watched the two women. Before long Allison stiffened and headed for the stairs. Then she turned and said something. I had seen my daughter act that way before, and I knew that whatever her reply, it was spiteful. Taylor shook her head and continued talking.
Allison crossed her arms and looked away, but she kept listening.
And Taylor kept talking.
Minutes passed.
And then something changed.
Little by little, Allison unfolded her arms. Taylor stepped closer and placed a hand on Allison’s forearm. Allison shook it off. After a moment Taylor raised her hands to Allison’s shoulders, forcing my daughter to meet her gaze.
Long seconds went by.
And then to my astonishment, my prickly, sarcastic, irritable, petulant, immensely talented, deeply sensitive daughter lowered her head and moved into Taylor’s arms, accepting her embrace.
Allison and Taylor remained joined for several seconds, their figures backlit against the house. Then, releasing Allison, Taylor turned for the stairs and departed, not looking back.
As Taylor disappeared into the house, I stood indecisively, wondering what had just happened. After a final stick-toss for Callie, I joined Allison on the deck. At my approach, I saw her wipe her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Everything’s fine,” she mumbled.
“What did you and Taylor just talk about?”
“Nothing. Just . . . girl stuff.”
“If you say so.”
“I say so.”
“Well, in that case, I’m going inside. Cold out here.”
“I’ll join you. And Dad?”
“What?”
“I love you. You know that, right?”
“I do, Ali,” I replied, now more confused that ever. “I love you, too.”
Later that evening, I was unable to sleep. As I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, I reviewed the events of the day, revisiting them in my mind. I was still puzzled by what had passed between Allison and Taylor, but whatever it was, I took it to be a positive turn of events. I was also happy that Nate seemed to be climbing out of the pit of depression that had nearly ended his life—even if it meant risking his neck in a kayak.
As for Taylo
r’s domestic abuse, I hadn’t yet decided what to do. Taylor wanted to handle the problem herself, and I understood that—at least from an empowerment point of view. Nevertheless, I wasn’t certain I could just stand by and do nothing.
Which brought me back to the investigation.
I had been minimizing things when I’d told Taylor that the case was grinding to a halt. The truth was, the investigation had already ground to a halt. We had nothing to go on. We needed something new, and waiting for the killer to do it again was an option I was unwilling to accept. Making matters worse, I still couldn’t shake the feeling I was missing something.
Taylor had claimed that if it were important, it would come to me. Although I had discounted her advice at the time, I didn’t have a better idea.
Maybe it was time to try a different approach.
As I lay in bed, I let my mind drift, working the edges of the case. It was an investigative technique I had used before, a method akin to not looking directly at something in the dark.
On a hunch, I reviewed my last phone conversation with the killer. “Congratulations, Detective Kane,” he had said. “We have made contact, you and I. Nevertheless, if you think Edmund’s paltry principle will assist in your niggling investigation, you’re sadly mistaken.” I had been puzzled by the killer’s use of the words “paltry” and “niggling.” As Deluca had pointed out, who talks like that?
And suddenly I had it.
I had seen those words before. I had read them in a book.
A textbook.
And not just any textbook.
Although I easily brought up the passage in my mind’s eye, I rose from bed and went to my bookcase to make certain. On a middle shelf, my fingers found the textbook in question: Forensic Science: Cases and Materials on Criminal Investigation, by Dr. Erich Krüger. I scanned the pages, locating the section I wanted on page sixty-seven.
A chill shivered up my spine as I read the words: “Initially dismissed by 20th century critics as a niggling, paltry addition to the field of forensics, Edmund Locard’s exchange principle has since proved an indispensible tool in scientific crime analysis.”
Niggling. Paltry.
All along, I had felt we needed something new to pry open the case.
Well, I had just found something new.
But what did it mean?
19
Something New
I met Deluca at the West L.A. station the next morning. At my request, Taylor skipped her FBI briefing and joined us in the squad room as well.
“Damn, Kane,” said Taylor upon arriving. “You look like hell.”
“Been up all night,” I sighed, rubbing a hand across my face.
“You’re not all that great looking even on a good day,” Deluca observed with a grin. “And this isn’t one of them.”
Taylor dragged over a chair, joining Deluca at my desk. “You find something?”
“Yeah, paisano. What’s up?” asked Deluca.
I reached for my copy of Forensic Science: Cases and Materials on Criminal Investigation, which I had brought with me from the house. “Remember the killer’s message, the one he left on my phone?”
Deluca nodded. “Who can forget?”
“At the time, I got the impression there was something familiar about his choice of words,” I said. “I finally figured out what.” I opened the textbook. Taylor and Deluca moved closer, reading the passage I had marked on page sixty-seven.
“Huh. ‘Niggling’ and ‘paltry,’” said Taylor, regarding me with amazement. “You recalled seeing those words together somewhere and tracked down the source?”
I nodded.
“So what does it mean?” asked Deluca, still staring at the book.
“A couple possibilities come to mind,” I replied. “Either the killer has read this textbook and inadvertently parroted those words, or—”
“—he did it on purpose, ’cause he’s screwing with us,” Deluca finished.
“I think it’s more likely that he made an unconscious slip, but either way, at some point our man came in contact with this book,” I reasoned.
Taylor leaned forward, something in her intensity reminding me of a hunting dog on scent. After her near breakdown the preceding evening, I was pleased to see the change. “How can we use this?” she asked.
“It’s a long shot, but we could assemble a list of anyone who has bought Krüger’s text and compare it to our other databases—dog-collar and surveillance-webcam purchasers, say,” I suggested. “Or maybe the voice-altering database, if we ever figure out what software he’s using.”
“CART is making progress on that,” said Taylor. “There aren’t that many masking programs. Our techs say they’ll crack it.”
“Let me know when they do.” Reminding myself to place a call to Hank and see how he was doing, I rocked back in my chair and rolled my neck, working out some kinks. “Anyway, I googled the author, Dr. Erich Krüger,” I continued. “Krüger taught forensics at the School of Criminal Justice and Criminalistics at California State University, Los Angeles. After that he was involved in developing a graduate criminalistics course at UC Irvine. Later he retired from academia to join the private sector, but while teaching at both universities he made routine use of his own textbook. A list of students who were enrolled in his courses could be our first step.
“Without a warrant, that’s going to be tough,” Deluca pointed out. “I’ve run into this before. Per the federal Family Educational Rights and Privacy Act, schools don’t just hand out student names.”
I thought a moment. “So let’s take a run at it from another direction. Lots of teachers keep class records. Maybe this Dr. Krüger did, too.”
“What else did you find out about Krüger?” asked Taylor.
“You’re thinking maybe we should take a look at him, too?” said Deluca.
“Maybe. He wrote the book. What do you think, Kane?”
“I ran Dr. Krüger’s name through the system. He came back clean—no arrests, warrants, or convictions—but at this point I’m not ruling out anyone,” I answered. “We need to talk with Krüger about getting a list of students. We can get a feel for him when we visit.”
“I’ll see whether the Bureau can turn up anything on him,” Taylor offered.
“Good idea.”
“Is Krüger a medical doctor?” asked Deluca.
“Dr. Krüger has a Ph.D.,” I replied. “He graduated with a law degree from Stanford, then earned a doctorate in Criminology, Law and Society at UC Irvine. After writing his forensics text and teaching at Cal State, he returned to UCI, becoming one of the youngest full professors in the history of the university.”
“And now he’s consulting?”
I nodded. “Has an office near San Diego. He provides expert-witness testimony for anyone who can afford his services.”
“Okay, so along with checking out Dr. Krüger as a possible suspect, we’re looking for a forensic student who’s used Krüger’s book, maybe while being enrolled at UC Irvine or Cal State,” said Deluca. “We might also widen the net to include anyone who’s purchased Krüger’s textbook, either at a bookstore or online. Lotta ground to cover. How do you want to handle it?”
I thought a moment. “Paul, you and I will hit UCI and Cal State to see what we can shake loose. Taylor, your Bureau creds give statewide authority, so you and I will visit Dr. Krüger in San Diego. Call his office and set up an appointment. And don’t say what it’s about. In fact, give the impression we want to hire his services.”
“I’m on it,” said Taylor. “What about textbook sales?”
“The Bureau should probably take the internet transactions on that, as they have a longer online reach. LAPD can check college bookstores and local retailers.”
“If I remember correctly, Cal State’s criminalistics school is located in the Hertzberg-Davis Forensic Science Center,” Deluca interjected, referring to an East L.A. regional crime lab that provided investigative services to LAPD and the Los Ang
eles Sheriff’s Department. “As the nation’s largest municipal crime lab, it employs over 400 forensic specialists.”
“You remember correctly,” I groaned, my sense of optimism beginning to plummet as I realized where Deluca was going. “You think we should take a look at them, too.”
“We have to. We know our guy is versed in forensics and police procedures, and they all have access to Krüger’s book.”
“I’ll suggest it to Ingram, but he won’t like investigating our own. And neither will Snead. You realize the can of worms we would be opening—especially if the media got wind of it.”
“I hate to say it,” Taylor noted glumly, “but we should probably have the Bureau contact local authorities in Portland and Seattle and do the same.”
With that we all fell silent, realizing the difficult task before us. What had begun as an apparent break in the case had abruptly morphed into a complex, potentially impossible undertaking.
“Okay,” I said, rising from my desk. “Maybe we’ll get lucky. Let’s get to it.”
20
Dr. Berns
Deluca and I worked through the remainder of Tuesday and all of Wednesday morning visiting Cal State and UCI, as well as several other Los Angeles colleges using Krüger’s textbook.
As Deluca had predicted, all refused to provide the names of any students, past or present, without student permission.
On another front, Taylor’s call to Dr. Krüger’s office had been transferred to an answering service, which informed her that Dr. Krüger was out of town testifying on a case and would be unavailable until early the following week. Also frustrating, Snead had summarily vetoed our request that HSS detectives take a look at Hertzberg-Davis employees, saying he simply didn’t have the resources—especially considering the number of credible tip-line leads that had yet to be investigated. Not surprisingly, Ingram had backed him up. Snead did agree to have his team run a perfunctory check for any suspicious activity in the lab ranks, which I suppose was something.
Dead and Gone Page 93
