by Philip Cox
Leroy began reading. He slid a photograph of Cordell over to Quinn. ‘Harlan Alfred Gallagher Cordell,’ he began. ‘Born December 24… forty-two years ago. So he would have been thirty-five then. Born in Chicago, Illinois. No idea why he ended up in LA. There were no records of parents, siblings, anybody in the house. He had a record. One for a DUI on Santa Monica Boulevard. And one for engaging in lewd contact in the restroom at Westfield, Century City.’
‘Century City?’ queried Quinn.
Leroy held up a finger. He carried on reading. ‘Last known employment was as a porter at UCLA.’ He looked up. ‘That’s odd: I thought he was working at a gas station. Off Sepulveda, I think.’
‘Maybe he had two jobs.’
‘Maybe he did. Strange there was nothing about that on here. History now, though.’ Leroy stood up. ‘Come on, Ray. Grab your coat. Let’s go pick up Professor Ramos.’
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Professor Maurice Ramos sat quietly behind the table in Interview Room Two. Leroy, Quinn and Perez watched him on the CCTV monitor in the Homicide Room.
‘You read him his rights already?’ Perez asked.
Leroy shook his head. ‘Not yet. We’ve not arrested him. I just said we had some questions to ask him, and it might be better to do it here, rather than at the college where there would be little privacy.’
‘Tread carefully, Sam,’ cautioned the lieutenant. ‘If he is our man, he’s clever. If he’s not, he’s still very clever. I remember him from Cordell. If we do get to charge him, I don’t want it thrown out on a technicality.’
‘I will. I’ll be careful.’
Leaving Quinn and Perez behind, Leroy re-joined Ramos. As he entered the room, the professor glanced at his watch. A classic sign of demonstrating perceived superiority.
‘With all due respect, Detective Leroy,’ Ramos said, ‘but how long am I going to be here? You said you had some questions. You implied it would be better for me if I answered them here, rather than in my office.’
‘That’s correct, sir.’ Leroy sat back down, and opened a manilla file.
‘Am I under arrest?’
‘No.’
‘So I can leave whenever I like?’
‘In theory, yes.’
‘What do you mean, in theory?’
‘What I mean is, it’s better we have this conversation here. I might need to consult between questions, and well, you don’t need your colleagues and students knowing the police were visiting you. No, you’re not under arrest; if you were, I would have read you your rights and we would have brought you here in our vehicle.’
Earlier, after they discovered Cordell used to work at UCLA, they headed straight back to speak to Ramos. They agreed he would follow them to the police station in his own car.
‘Something I’m curious about, Professor: you didn’t seem surprised when Detective Quinn and I arrived. We only spoke to you yesterday.’
‘Why would I be surprised? I have given you technical advice before. Years ago, and more recently. Some of my colleagues know that I have been advising you, and so another request for help from the police would not seem strange.’
‘So you could have come back here with us? Nobody at the university would have batted an eyelid?’
‘Possibly not, I don’t know.’ Another check of the watch. ‘Now, please can we get on? I am a very busy man.’
‘Sure. Now, Professor: just to get us started, how long have you been working at UCLA?’
Ramos sighed impatiently. ‘Approximately ten years.’
‘As Professor of Theology?’
‘Yes. Professor of Theology.’
‘And just for the record, where did you obtain your professorship?’
Ramos was getting irritated. Leroy could not tell whether he was getting hot under the collar, or whether he was just a very busy man who was having his time wasted. ‘I graduated from the University of Manila.’
‘Manila as in the Philippine Islands?’
‘Yes, Detective, in the Philippines.’
‘And that was where you were born?’
‘Yes, born and raised.’
‘Are you married, Professor?’
‘No, I am not married. What does -?’
‘You’re single, unattached?’
‘Yes, what -?’
‘Just routine, background detail, sir. Now, if you can cast your mind back seven years to the time when I and Detective Perez were investigating what were called the Cordell Murders.’
Outside, Perez cleared his throat at the words Detective Perez.
‘I thought they were called the Pentagram Murders? At least that was what they were called on the news and in the papers.’
‘Kind of, Professor. I think some of the more sensational and lurid tabloid latched on to the pentagram angle. Serious reporters abstained from that. They knew it was just the work of some sick motherfucker - pardon my French, sir - and didn’t want to glamorize it, or make it out as more than what it was.’
‘Sam, what are you doing?’ whispered Perez.
‘I think,’ replied Quinn, ‘he’s trying to piss Ramos off; make him blurt out something that gives him away. He got under his skin at UCLA yesterday.’
‘Hmm,’ answered Perez sardonically. ‘A confession would be good. As far as I can see, everything you two have so far is circumstantial.’
Ramos bristled. ‘I think we’re done here, Detective.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I’ll cut to the chase.’
Ramos settled slightly. ‘Please do.’ Another glance at his watch.
‘You very kindly gave Detective, now Lieutenant, Perez advice seven years ago.’
‘Which enabled you to catch your killer.’
Leroy decided not to dispute that at this time. ‘And as you know, Harlan Cordell was to be arrested and charged.’
‘But he wasn’t, was he, Detective? You shot and killed him.’
‘Yes, but he was the killer, wasn’t he, Professor? That was clear. His profile tied in exactly with the invaluable advice you had given us.’
Ramos sat back, relaxed now. A satisfied smile passed across his face. He rested his arms of the arms of the chair.
‘Professor, did you know Harlan Cordell?’
The satisfied smile vanished. ‘Did I know him? Why would I?’
‘Because he worked as a porter at UCLA.’
‘Not so confident now,’ said Quinn. ‘Look at the surprise on his face.’
‘Yes,’ Perez pointed out, ‘but that could be genuine if he didn’t know Cordell. It would come as one hell of a shock to learn he worked in the same place as the killer.’
‘Yeah,’ Quinn mused. ‘Surprise that they did both work at UCLA or surprise that we discovered it?’
Ramos was soon able to control his look of surprise. ‘Hardly a revelation, is it? What’s the population of Los Angeles? Something like four million, I believe. The population at the university is around forty-five thousand, including staff, students, other workers. That’s just over one percent. UCLA is a big place, Detective: somebody could quite easily work as a porter or gardener, even a tutor in another faculty and I wouldn’t know about them.’
Leroy felt his phone vibrate. Somebody was calling. He ignored it.
‘So, Professor, you definitely didn’t know Cordell?’
‘No. I did not know Cordell. Any more questions?’
Leroy slid Cordell’s photograph from the file to the professor’s side of the table. Ramos glance down at it. There was no reaction. ‘That’s Cordell,’ Leroy explained.
The phone vibrated again: this time it was a text. This time he checked it. He knew Perez and Quinn would be watching. He indicated over to the camera to ask one of them to come in.
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ Ramos said, standing up as Quinn walked in.
‘Sit down, Professor,’ ordered Leroy. Ramos, startled by the change in tone, obeyed. Leroy showed Quinn the text he had just received.
‘Just a couple more
questions, Professor,’ Leroy said, ‘for now.’ Quinn stood by the interview room door, behind Ramos.
‘What the hell is happening?’ Ramos asked, slamming his fist on the table.
‘Just to be clear, sir,’ Leroy asked, ‘you never knew Harlan Cordell?’
‘No, I did not.’
‘Last question. One of the recent killings was not of a woman, but of a man. A man who liked to dress up as a woman, and could have easily been mistaken for one. I think I told you that yesterday.’
Ramos said nothing. His eyes burned into Leroy’s.
‘The man was killed by thirty-seven blows to the chest with a large knife. A hunting knife, maybe?’
Ramos shrugged. ‘What does that have to do with me? I assisted you; I gave you advice so you could catch Cordell, and so you can catch this new killer. Why are you wasting time like this?’
‘Perhaps you could explain to me, Professor,’ Leroy continued, ‘how in most of these thirty-seven stab wounds, we found traces of your DNA?’
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
It was going to be so easy. Just like the others had been.
It was all in the preparation of course. As he was wont to tell his students time after time, ‘If you fail to prepare, then prepare to fail.’
That, of course, was concerning examinations, but applied equally anywhere. It was particularly apposite here: selecting the right type of victim – ones with the right profile, to use the terminology of those fools in law enforcement. The right age range, the same as the first one. The right hair colour, the same as the first one. The right height and build: the same as the first, and of a manageable size.
This one was slightly taller than the others had been, and slightly sturdier, but overall fitted the profile. He enjoyed the irony in that phrase.
Through the crack between the door and doorframe he could obtain a glimpse of her body in the shower, enjoying her silhouetted form as he prepared to make his move.
The water stopped, and he stepped behind the door.
He heard the shower stall door slide open.
He heard her step out of the shower.
She was standing in the middle of the bathroom, towelling herself down.
Vulnerable.
Suspecting nothing.
He remembered watching a nature programme on television once: a young impala stood by itself in the African bush, grazing, completely unaware of the adult cheetah crouching in the undergrowth.
Until the cheetah sprang.
She was the impala; he was the cheetah.
He sprang.
Everything happened in a fraction of a second: he stepped over the threshold into the bathroom; she became aware of sudden movement behind her, and turned around.
He suddenly became aware that the woman’s hair was different: no longer dark and shoulder-length, but cropped close, of an indiscriminate colour. She had been drying her back, and the front of the towel was open, revealing the front of her body.
Only it was not her body.
The shock on the man’s face was equal to that on the face of Ramos: in a panic, he turned to flee, but the man was too quick.
Now who was the impala and who was the cheetah?
‘Mother-FUCKER!’ The towel dropping from the floor, the naked man leapt at Ramos, grabbing him by the arm with his left hand, his right hand on Ramos’s neck. Ramos pushed back, trying to shrug the man - Troy Keffer - off. They both crashed against the doorframe; Keffer crying out in pain as he caught the back of his head against the wood. But the impact was not enough to cause Keffer to release him; instead, still holding Ramos by the arm and the neck, threw the professor back into the bathroom, crashing against the Perspex side of the shower stall. The impact knocked the side out of its base; stall side and Ramos sent crashing into the shower.
‘Fucking pervert!’ Keffer leapt on Ramos, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him up. By now, the surprise and astonishment had left both men: Keffer clearly had the upper hand, and Ramos, rather than carrying out his planned ritual, was now fighting for his own life, or at least a way out of this situation.
Ramos did have one advantage, however: he was fully clothed, including shoes; Keffer was nude. He lashed out with his left foot and caught Keffer just below the groin. It is always a male instinct to protect the groin, even more so when naked. Keffer cried out again: he was still clinging on to Ramos’s collars, but his grip was weakened. Ramos took advantage of this and pushed hard against the larger, stronger man. Keffer fell back, banging the back of his head on the toilet. He had by now let go of Ramos and lay there, dazed for a moment.
Ramos made his move.
He reached behind and took the knife out of the sheath he had affixed to his belt. He knelt over the prone and dazed body of Troy Keffer and stabbed. Keffer put his arms out to protect himself, but it was too late. He was dead after the second blow; even so, Ramos carried on stabbing at the dead man’s chest, again and again and again. With each blow he swore and cursed, sometimes in English, sometimes in Tagalog, his native tongue.
When he finally stopped, Keffer’s chest was covered in stab wounds: the flow of blood was easing now: once Ramos had administered the fatal blow, Keffer’s heart stopped; now there was nothing pumping the blood around his body. Gravity was now controlling the flow.
For a minute or two, Ramos remained motionless, kneeling over Keffer’s body. He dropped the knife to the floor. As he knelt getting his breath back, he looked into Keffer’s dead eyes. How could he have gotten it so wrong? Never in a million years would he have suspected that the moderately attractive solitary woman was not who she made herself out to be.
His first was that pathetic inadequate cockteaser who had the temerity to mock him; now this one was doing the same thing, from beyond the grave.
He wiped the spittle from his mouth. He knew what he had to do next. He stood up, took Keffer’s ankles and dragged the body a couple of feet so that his face and mouth were looking up at the ceiling.
Then he reached into his back pocket.
He had work to do.
But playtime first.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Ramos looked up at Leroy. His face had an expression of disdain.
‘What are you talking about?’ There was contempt and superiority in his voice.
‘I’m talking about the traces of your DNA which we found inside the stab wounds, the almost forty stab wounds in Troy Keffer’s chest.’
Ramos sat back in his chair. ‘And how do you know it’s my DNA?’ he sneered.
‘Because we got a sample of your DNA when we visited you yesterday. After your lecture.’
Ramos pulled an expression to say, what?
‘You had a glass of water while you were giving your lecture. You drank from it. You left traces of saliva on it. That saliva contained your DNA.’
‘You took it from my drinking glass, without my permission? Is that legal? Is that permissible in court?’ Now, Ramos’s expression was one of smugness.
Leroy looked over at Quinn. Please God, let it be his DNA on that glass. Disguising his concern that Ramos might call his bluff, he leaned back in his own chair. ‘Tell you what, Professor, why don’t you give us a sample now, voluntarily, and that will clear things up once and for all. If it’s not your DNA on the glass, then we’ll say goodbye, send you on your way with our good wishes, hoping you have told us who did use that glass; if it is your DNA, then well…’ He opened his arms in an over to you gesture.
Ramos looked at Leroy for a few seconds, the turned around in his chair to look at Quinn. Then his gaze returned to Leroy. ‘You think you’re so clever, don’t you? Cleverer than I am? Whereas, in reality, you could never be.’
Leroy said to Quinn, ‘I think it’s time to read the professor his rights. You got a lawyer, Ramos?’
‘A lawyer?’ spat Ramos. ‘Why would I need a lawyer?’
‘Go on, Ray.’
Leroy pushed his chair back slightly and stepped over to a panel on
the wall. He pressed the record switch, made sure the little red light was blinking, denoting that the interrogation was now being recorded, and nodded to Quinn, who stepped forward and recited to Ramos, ‘You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand?’
Throughout the Miranda warning, the smirk never left Ramos’s face. He said nothing.
‘Do you understand your rights as read out by Detective Quinn, Professor?’ Leroy asked.
Ramos said nothing.
Leroy said aloud, ‘For the purposes of this recording, the suspect, Maurice Ramos, declined to answer.’
Ramos chuckled. ‘“If you cannot afford an attorney.” I earn in a year what an attorney earns in two.’
‘You earned, you mean,’ said Leroy. ‘Not any more. Past tense.’ The smirk disappeared for a second, then returned. ‘So, do you have an attorney?’
‘Why would I need an attorney?’ Ramos asked again.
‘You’re being charged with the murder of Danielle Scott, of Troy Keffer, and of an, at this time, unnamed woman. Do you deny the charges?’
‘I am denying nothing,’ Ramos declared proudly.
‘So you’re admitting the charges?’
‘I am admitting nothing.’
Leroy rubbed the bridge of his nose. This was going to be hard work. ‘The murders of those three people: do you admit or deny the charges?’
Ramos said nothing.
‘Or maybe,’ Leroy said to Quinn, who was still standing behind Ramos, ‘that the professor here doesn’t recognise us, doesn’t recognise the LAPD. Maybe the professor here thinks he is above all that.’
‘Maybe,’ concurred Quinn, not knowing where this was going.
‘Lawyer, lawyer,’ Perez muttered at the TV screen. He had an uneasy feeling.
‘In fact,’ Leroy continued, ‘there’s no way Professor Ramos here could have carried out those three killings. They were the work of a maniac, somebody with serious issues. What’s the correct medical term? Oh, yes, one sick fuck.’ As he spoke, he watched as Ramos’s eyes followed him around the interview room. The smirk was beginning to fade. ‘And,’ he added, laughing, ‘the third murder. Troy Keffer. Whoever killed Keffer thought he was a girl! Can you believe it, Ray? Keffer…’ He put his hand on his crotch as he spoke. ‘Keffer - a girl! Jesus Christ, what a putz!’
