Cold Hit (12 page)

I smiled at him through dry teeth. "Since I got this case, I've been studying up on serial crime. I've read all of John Douglas's books on serial homicide, Robert Ressler's too, Ann Burgess and Robert Keppel "

"Okay, okay, I get it. But it's one thing to read a book, it's another to actually go out and catch one of thes
e s
ociopaths. Since you obviously like reading about it, I suggest you pick up my book Motor City Monster. It's on Amazon dot com. Been called the definitive work in the field. In fact, let's make that an order. You need to get some facts straight. Have it read by Monday morning."

"Yes, sir."

He tapped a spot on his desk. "Put the murder book there." I set it down while Agent Underwood settled into his executive swivel and picked up a folder. It was my two-week report. Every homicide detective routinely files a TWR with his or her supervisor. It details the workings of all active investigations. Underwood ran a freckled hand through his orange bristle, then opened the folder, licked his index finger, and slowly started to page through it, leaning forward occasionally to frown.

Once, about two years ago, I was working a fugitive warrant that took me to Yellowstone Park. It was rattlesnake season and I hate snakes. I was paired up with a park ranger who told me that when dealing with poisonous reptiles, the way to keep from getting bitten was to give them something more interesting than you to think about. It was time to put that strategy to use.

Underwood looked up from my TWR. "I hope you and your partner are getting in some nice days at the beach, because, if not, this whole last two weeks has been a total waste of time."

I launched into action. "Agent Underwood, I have a plan to draw your unsub out." Notice the clever possessive pronoun.

Disinterested gray eyes, magnified and skeptical, studied me behind those thick wire-rimmed lenses. Undisguised contempt.

"Really?" he finally said, stretching it way out so it sounded more like a wail than a word.

"Yes. I think we should throw a funeral for one of these John Does."

Underwood steepled his fingers under his chin and scowled at me. Then he heaved a giant sigh that seemed to say that dealing with morons was just one of the ugly realities of command.

When he next spoke, he enunciated his words very carefully so that even a fool like me wouldn't get confused.

"It probably hasn't occurred to you, but since the advent of DNA, we no longer hold unidentified bodies at the morgue. All of those previous John Does have been buried. Since you've been so busy misprofiling this unsub, it may have escaped your notice, but Mister Collins has requested that his son be immediately flown back to Seattle, leaving no corpses for your little scam." Then he tipped back in his swivel and regarded me smugly.

"John Doe Number Four is still available," I answered. "He's the one we found at Forest Lawn Drive seven days ago. I checked with the coroner and he's still on ice. We give him a phony name, publicize the hell out of the funeral, get some retired cops to be his mom and dad and see who stumbles in."

I could see he instantly liked it. It had flair. It wa
s t
he kind of thing Jodie Foster might have come up with in Silence of the Lambs. But this only registered as a glint in his stone-gray eyes. His face never even twitched and you had to be trained at reading assholes to spot it.

"Our budget is limited," he equivocated.

"I can get Forest Lawn to work with us. I know a woman down there who's a funeral director. What if I could set it up for under three thousand? I'll get him embalmed on the cheap so we can have an open casket. We'll put on a full media blitz. I'm pretty sure I can rig it in a day or so."

He sat there running this over in his pea brain. It's a well-known fact that some killers have an overpowering urge to attend the funerals of their victims. Judd Underwood should have suggested it himself instead of filling our briefing with psychobabble and lunar charts. But that's a complaint better left to the book and movie guys milling in the squad room beyond the invisible walls of his office.

"You get it set up for under three grand and I'll get Deputy Chief Ramsey to approve it."

I didn't believe that Forrest was part of the Fingertip case, so why stage an elaborate funeral to see who shows up? Well, I had a devious plan building in the back of my head that might solve all of my problems with one brilliantly deceptive move.

I started to leave, stupidly moving to my right before I remembered and skidded to a halt. I had almost walked through the south wall again.

"Sorry," I muttered. "I keep forgetting that wall is there."

"I'm not a complete moron," Underwood said. "The reason that line is chalked out is so the contractors who are coming in this evening will know where to hang the partitions."

"Thank God for that," I muttered.

"I don't like your attitude, Detective."

"Don't feel bad. Nobody does. I'm not even sure I like it most of the time."

Then I stepped over the chalk line into the squad room where I used my cell phone to call my friend Bryna Spiros at Forest Lawn. Once I had her on the line, I explained what I needed. She cut me a great deal. Twenty-five hundred for everything, flowers, all park personnel and security services, even a priest to say a few words. I told her I'd have Rico From Pico get in touch to make arrangements for the body to be sent over for embalming. She said she'd loan me a casket at no charge because it was scheduled to be burned in a cremation later in the week.

With all this in the works, I decided to head up to Special Crimes to talk to Cal. On my way out two of my new task force brothers were shooting the bull by the elevators.

"Judd Underwood is legendary," one of them said.

I let the open elevator go and started stalling, fiddling with the buttons. I wanted to hear this.

"Over at the Eye, they call him Agent Orange because he defoliates careers. If something goes wrong, he'l
l p
in it on the guys working with him."

A second elevator opened and Deputy Chief Michael Ramsey hurried out. He was tall, milk-white, and looked like a forties matinee idol, complete with the oiled black hair and pencil-thin moustache.

He turned and faced me. "You're Scully."

I reached out and stopped the elevator door from closing.

"Yes, sir."

"I'm looking for you to put this Fingertip deal down fast. Can you make that happen for me?"

"Gonna try."

"That's the ticket," he said with false enthusiasm. "We got a storm blowing in on this one. You wait 'til it's raining to pitch a tent, everybody gets wet." Sounding like a scout leader giving out instructions before a jamboree.

We stood there looking at each other. Me in the elevator, him in the hall. No connection. Nothing. We'd actually run out of small talk in less than ten seconds. So to end it, I slid my hand off the door and the elevator closed, cutting him from view.

Chapter
17

I arrived at my digs in Homicide Special where the phones worked, and sat in my old cubicle withou
t t
he murder book or my partner and rubbed my forehead. After talking with Fran Farrell yesterday, I had t
o a
dmit I felt uneasy, unsure of what to do about Zack. All I knew was I was in a close race with Internal Affairs for his badge. But I couldn't dwell on it because now I was also stuck with this funeral. So I headed in to see Jeb Calloway, brought him up to date, and then begged for his help.

"Not my problem anymore," he said, after I finished. "Take it up with your task force commander."

"Deputy Chief Ramsey put some rat-bag ASAC from the FBI in charge of the task force. The guy's actually got us on a lunar calendar."

"Look, Scully, you're a good cop, but sometimes you complain too much."

"Captain, we're stuck in a Hannibal Lecter movie down there. His own people at the Eye call him Agent Orange."

"Whatta you want from me?" Cal said. "I didn't put this task force on the ground. Take it up with the head of the Detective Bureau." Some songs never change.

I switched tactics. "I need to get this funeral set up fast. I'd like to run it out of here."

"Jeez, Scully."

"I'll clear it with Agent Underwood," I pleaded. "We don't even have phones or furniture yet. There's hardly any place to sit."

After a long, reflective moment, Cal nodded. "Okay, you clear it with your task force commander and I'll let you work it from this floor temporarily." Then he frowned. "A funeral's a big expense for a copycat kill, or are you off that now?"

"I'm keeping every option open, Cap. Just like you taught us."

He gave me a tight smile. He knew blatant ass-kissing when he saw it.

"And I want Ed Hookstratten from Press Relations to handle the PR," I rushed on. "I need press about this funeral in all the papers and TV. I know you guys are tight and I was wondering if you could pin him down for me."

"You got a name for the DB yet? We can't put John Doe on the headstone."

"He's gonna be Forrest Davies."

"Okay. You get Underwood to sign off. I'll get in touch with Sergeant Hookstratten."

He fixed me with one of those hard-ass, Event Security stares of his and said, "Agent Orange?"

The rest of the afternoon I focused on the funeral. First I left a message for Underwood that I was working at my old desk until our task force phones were in. Then I did the casting for Forrest's immediate family, who I decided to name Rusty and Alison Davies. I made a few calls and recruited two retired cops I'd worked with ten years ago. Detective Bob Stewart agreed to be Forrest's dad and Sergeant Grace Campbell would play his mom. Both were gray-haired sixty-eight-year-old vets who looked like they could be the parents of a fifty-year-old man. I asked them to send over personal portraits for a press packet I was making up to go with the artist's rendition of Forrest.

At three o'clock, Bryna Spiros called back. There wa
s a
chapel available at one-thirty tomorrow afternoon. I took it and thanked her.

By five o'clock almost everyone was back after an unsuccessful day at the V
. A
. I brought my team up to the Homicide Special break room for a pre-meeting. They were tired, and I was getting a decent amount of stink-eye. Big spender that I am, I bought everyone machine coffee. The funeral crew consisted of nine people including me.

Sergeant Ed Hookstratten was a six-foot-four, hollow-chested, Lurch-like piece of work with a long hooked nose to go with his name. The man always slouched, but he was, without question, the best media guy in the Glass House.

I'd picked the four cops that I already knew on the task force: Bola, Diaz, Ward, and Quinn. My long-lens photographers were Kyle Jute and Doreen McFadden, two patrol officers who were camera buffs. I'd used them both in the past. The last two players were the grieving parents, retired Sergeants Campbell and Stewart.

Everybody sipped watery coffee while I laid out the op. We would be on Handy-Talkies with earpieces and would stay well back, watch, and photograph everything, making sure to get close-ups of all the license plates in the parking lot for DMV checks later. We had no warrants, so we would make no arrests unless some overt crime happened right in front of us.

This was strictly a photo surveillance.

W
hen I got home that evening, Chooch and his best friend Darius Hall were huddled in th
e b
ackyard with their heads together talking earnestly. Chooch had just been notified by the UCLA athletic department that head coach Karl Dowell wanted to arrange a home visit. It was scheduled for the day after tomorrow at five-thirty in the evening. Delfina was in her room doing homework, so Alexa and I kicked off our shoes in the den and sipped cold beers.

"Good news about UCLA," she said.

"Very," I agreed.

"So how was your day?"

"Don't go there."

"Don't be an asshole," she smiled. "I want to hear about the task force. What's your take on the crowd Chief Ramsey picked?"

Instead of engaging in petty cheap shots, I told her about the funeral the following afternoon.

She was silent for a minute after I finished. "I thought you had John Doe Number Four down as a copycat kill."

"Might be. Might not be. Never can tell," I said, blithely sawing the air with an indifferent hand.

She looked at me critically. "Are you trying to get off this task force and be reassigned to this last John Doe murder?" picking off my brilliantly deceptive pla
n f
aster than a base runner stealing signs from second.

"Naw . . . get off the Fingertip task force?" I lied. "How can you say that? We got invisible offices and a neat FBI leader who will tolerate nothing but brilliance. No ma'am. This is a chance to get my name in the paper. Maybe I can even sell this case to the movies, and put a second story on this house so Chooch won't have to sleep in the garage."

"Don't hedge, Shane."

I looked at her and shrugged.

"Let me see if I'm reading this right. You absolutely hate task forces. You know Zack is in career trouble. With all the white light the Fingertip case is getting, he won't last two days on that unit, so you want me to split this last murder off and move you and Zack onto it, out of the spotlight, until you can figure out what to do to save him." Busting me like ripe fruit.