Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 02 (7 page)

He said, “I also find it interesting the way people relate to you. Bonnie's mother, for example. She clearly saw you as an authority figure and that caused her to be respectful. She's a conventional woman, proud of her husband's military service, takes her responsibilities seriously.”

“As opposed to her daughter.”

“Yes.”

“Generation gap,” said Petra.

“Generational breakdown,” he said. “People in Bonnie's generation see themselves as free from convention and regulation.”

“You think that's bad?”

Isaac smiled. “I've been instructed by my dissertation committee not to make value judgments until the data are all in.”

“We ain't in school. Go a little crazy.”

He fingered his tie. “I think an extremely open society is a double-edged sword. Some people take advantage of freedom in a healthy way, others can't cope. On balance, I'd opt for too much freedom. Sometimes, when I can get my father to talk, he tells us about El Salvador. I know the difference between democracy and the alternatives. There's no country as great as America in the twenty-first century.”

“Except for people who can't cope with too much freedom.”

“And they,” said Isaac, “have you to contend with.”

Gower Street. Unit eleven of a twenty-unit apartment complex the color of honeydew melon set midway between Hollywood Boulevard and Franklin Avenue.

“Okay,” said Petra, getting out of the car. “Let's see what our little fibber has to say for herself.”

When she scanned the mailboxes near the front door, unit eleven was registered to
Hawkins, A.

No
Leon
on any of the slots.

The front door was unlocked. They climbed the stairs and walked to the rear of the hallway where number eleven was tucked. Petra rang the bell and a very tall, black man in a green sweater and brown slacks answered the door. White snowflakes were printed at the neck and cuffs of the sweater, a ski-thing in June. An intricate zigzag cornrow sheathed his high-domed head—one of those architectural masterpieces NBA pros liked to sport. Rapidograph pen in one hand, ink stains on his fingertips. What Petra could see of the apartment was spare and well-kept. Drafting table pushed up against a window. A cloud of incense drifted out to the hall.

“Yes?” said the man, twirling the pen.

“Afternoon, sir,” said Petra, flashing the badge. “I'm looking for Sandra Leon.”

“Who?”

Petra repeated the name. “She listed this apartment as her address.”

“Maybe she lived here once upon a time, but not for at least a year, because that's how long I've been here.”

“A year,” said Petra.

“Twelve months and two weeks to be exact.” Twirl, twirl. Big grin. “I promise you, my name's not Sandra.”

Petra smiled back. “What would it be, sir?”

“Alexander Hawkins.”

“Artist?”

“When I'm allowed to be. Mostly I work at a travel agency—Serenity Tours, over at Crossroads of the World.” Another grin. “If that matters.”

“It doesn't,” said Petra, “unless you know Sandra Leon.”

“Is she an attractive young lady who appreciates art?” said Hawkins.

“She's a sixteen-year-old girl who may have witnessed a murder.”

Hawkins turned serious. “No, I don't know any Sandra Leon.”

“Is there an in-house landlord or manager?”

“I wish. These luxury accommodations are shepherded by Franchise Realty headquartered in the golden city of Downey. I was just on the phone with their answering machine. Little insect problem. I can give you the number, know it by heart.”

Back in the car, Petra called the company. The previous occupant of unit eleven had been a family named Kim and they'd been there for five years. No Leons had rented any apartments in the building during the seven years Franchise had managed the place.

She hung up, told Isaac. “Sandra lied twice. And that makes me
real
interested in her.”

Back on the phone, she left a detailed message for Dr. Bob Katzman.

Isaac said, “Now what?”

Petra said, “Now we return to the station and I try to locate little Ms. Leon. When I hit a wall, which will probably be sooner rather than later, I'll take a closer look at those files of yours.”

“I've been looking into June 28 to see if there's some sort of historical significance. The best criminal link I've come up with is that John Dillinger was born on that day. I suppose that could be inspirational to a sociopath. But Dillinger was a bank robber, a grandstander, very dramatic, the epitome of a conspicuous felon. From what I can tell, this killer's just the opposite. He's been picking a variety of victims in order to embed his pattern.”

This killer. Pattern.
The kid was convinced of one dark hand behind all six cases. Ah, impetuous youth.

As Petra began the short drive back to Wilcox, Isaac said, “Something else took place on June 28. The assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand. June 28, 1914. Essentially, that began World War One.”

“There you go,” said Petra. “Someone's declared war on the good folk of L.A.”

CHAPTER

11

I
t was the wound pattern that snagged her.

Six
P.M.
As predicted, she'd hit the wall on Leon sooner rather than later. She phoned a nearby Mr. Pizza and called out for a small deep-dish with everything on it.

Across the room, Isaac remained at his corner desk, scribbling, punching his laptop, jotting down notes. Making a big show out of being inconspicuous. When the pie came, she went over and offered him a slice. He said no thanks, tailed her back to her desk, hung around as she opened the greasy box.

Petra selected a slice and began picking cheese off the pointed end.

Isaac said “Have a good evening” and left the station.

She poured herself more coffee, played with strings of mozzarella, picked up one of the files. Drank and ate and began to read. Getting grease on the folders. Being a little cavalier about it.

Until she came to the autopsy reports.

Six autopsy reports written by six separate coroners. The language was nearly identical.

Compression injuries of the occipital skull.

Hit from behind.

In every autopsy report, the weapon was described as heavy and tubular, approximately 77 centimeters in diameter in three murders, 75 in one, 78 in two. Which was close enough, given varying bone densities in people of different ages and sexes.

Two pathologists had been willing to speculate that the bludgeon was metal or hard plastic, because no imbedded wood fragments had been found.

What
had
been found was lots of blood and bone frags and gobbets of brain matter.

To Petra the weapon sounded like a length of pipe. Seventy-seven centimeters matched three inches on her old-fashioned ruler. Nice, hefty chunk of pipe.

Deep compression injuries, all that gore.

Someone—if there was a someone—liked braining people.

She started with the detective she knew still on the job.

Neil Wahlgren, the D on the Curtis Hoffey case. All she'd heard was he'd transferred somewhere in the Valley.

It took a while, but she located his extension at Van Nuys Auto Theft. Petra's job trajectory had been just the opposite, from chop shops to chopped humans, and she wondered why Neil had switched.

He was away from his desk, but the V.N. desk officer gave her his cell and she reached him.

“Hey,” he said. “Barbie from Ken and Barbie, right?”

Remembering Petra and Stu Bishop. Those had been good days.

“That's me,” she said.

“Hey,” Wahlgren repeated. He had a hearty voice that sounded genuinely warm. Petra recalled him vaguely as a big, ruddy Nord with a bulbous nose. The kind you imagined ice-fishing and quaffing whatever ice fishers quaffed.

“Chasing chrome?” she said. “No more d.b.s?”

“Ten years of d.b.s was enough. Give me a nice boosted Lexus with GPS any day. What's up?”

“I've been looking at some cold cases and came across one of yours. Curtis Hoffey.”

Right away Wahlgren said, “Male pross, hit over the head.”

“That's the one.”

“Messy.”

“Messy in terms of crime scene or detection?”

“Both. Couldn't make an inch of progress,” said Neil. “Which is no surprise, I guess, a vic like that. Twenty years old and from what I could gather he'd been on the streets since twelve. Poor kid probably serviced the wrong john, but there was no talk on the street and no prior similars.”

“I might have one—emphasize
might,
” she said. “Someone was combing through old files and came up with half a dozen head-bashes that match in terms of wound pattern and weapon guestimology.”

She paused. Should she go all the way, give him the June 28 tie-in? No, too weird. Not at this point—the guy worked Auto T, anyway, why would he care?

Neil said, “That so? Well, I didn't hear anything about that at the time.” Defensiveness had crept into his voice.

Petra said, “No way you could, it's probably nothing.”

“Who found it?” said Wahlgren.

“An intern. Who else would have the time?”

“What, one of those Eagle Scout types, all gung-ho?”

“Yup. So who caught it after you left?”

“Don't know. Schoelkopf said he'd handle the transfer. He still there? Still being a total asshole?”

“Still here,” she said. “If he did transfer the case, there's no record.”

“No surprise,” said Neil. “Even at the time he didn't want me spending too much time on it, said we needed to pay attention to gang murders, this was a ‘West Hollywood case.' You know what I mean.”

“Gay.”

“Gay hooker, low probability of closing it, and the city council was making noise about gang stuff. You get a whodunit with no serious forensics, no relatives or politicians breathing down your neck . . .” Neil trailed off.

“Sure,” said Petra.

“The truth was, Schoelkopf was right. About it being a likely dead end.”

And you didn't care to test the assumption.

“So Curtis had no family?” she said. Using the vic's name. Wanting Neil to think about Hoffey as a human being, at least for a moment.

“No one claimed the body. He got bashed up pretty good. If I never see another one like it, I'll be none the worse off.”

CHAPTER

12

J
ewell Blank, the fourteen-year-old girl murdered in Griffith Park, had relatives, but according to Detective Max Stokes's notes, they hadn't been helpful.

The mother was Grace Blank, twenty-nine, single, a barmaid, living with her boyfriend, Thomas Crisp, thirty-two, an unemployed trucker and “biker type.” Neither had seen Jewell for over a year, since she'd run away from their double-wide on the outskirts of Bakersfield. Neither, it appeared, had searched for her with any enthusiasm.

Twenty-nine years old meant Grace had given birth to Jewell when she was fifteen and Petra had a good idea of what came with that.

Another kid in Griffith Park. That made Petra's stomach knot up, as she thought of Billy Straight. Same background, same escape. Billy had lived in the park, like a feral child, scrounging Dumpsters for food and narrowly avoiding death. But for a happier ending, he could've been sitting on a cloud next to Jewell Blank.

Petra had rescued Billy. For the first year, after his grandmother took him in, they'd stayed in touch—regular phone calls, occasional outings. Now, Billy was fifteen, nearly six feet tall, and a prep-school junior. On his way to Stanford, Mrs. Adamson confided. She'd already talked to the dean.

It had been months since Petra had heard from him. Which was probably good, at least from his perspective. His life was in order, what use would he have for the police?

She found no record that Jewell Blank's case had been transferred to another detective.

Max Stokes appeared to have worked the case hard, getting help, as it turned out, from Shirley Lenois. The two veteran detectives had scoured the streets, interviewed scores of other runaways, checked the shelters and the churches and the agencies.

Jewell had squatted, on and off, in some of Hollywood's last remaining abandoned buildings and was known to her street-kid peers as “stuck-up,” an assertive panhandler, an adroit shoplifter. No one could say if she'd prostituted herself for money, but she had slept with boys for drugs.

Multi-drug user: weed, pills, meth, acid, Ecstasy. Not heroin, though, everyone agreed. Needles scared Jewell. Petra returned to the autopsy report, avoiding the photos of the little girl's head. No needle tracks. The tox screen revealed significant levels of cannabis, alcohol, and pseudoephedrine, probably from an OTC decongestant.

According to the other kids, Jewell frequented the park when she got in a bad mood and didn't want to hang with anyone else.

No, she'd never spoken of meeting anyone there.

No, there were no boyfriends or regular johns in her life. At least, not that she'd ever mentioned.

She'd been found fully clothed with no evidence of rape. The coroner's conclusion was that she'd been sexually active for some time.

A premortem snapshot had been stapled to the file. What looked to be a school photo of a kid around nine. Jewell Blank had been dark-haired, wan, freckled, reluctant to smile.

Grace Blank and Thomas Crisp wanted to know if the city would pay for funeral expenses. Max Stokes's notes were terse on that subject:

“I informed them that death arrangements etc. were the family's responsibility. Respondents were displeased by that info., said they'd get back to me.”

Jewell Blank's body had sat in the morgue for a month before an Inglewood mortuary had picked it up for cremation.

Was there any point talking to Max? Disrupting the poor guy's retirement by reminding him of one that had gotten away?

She looked around the room. Three detectives hunched over piles of paperwork. That young, good-looking one, Eddie Baker; Ryan Miller, another stud; and Barney Fleischer, gaunt, bald, ancient, nearing retirement himself.

Petra walked over to Barney's desk. He was filling out a requisition form for office supplies. Demi-glasses perched on his beaklike nose. His handwriting was tiny, pretty, almost calligraphic.

She asked him if he knew where Max Stokes was.

“Corvallis, Washington,” he said, continuing to write. “He's got a daughter up there, Karen. She's a doctor, never got married so you can probably find her under Stokes.”

No curiosity about why Petra wanted to know. Petra thanked him and returned to Jewell Blank's file. Skimming a bit more, she put it aside, called Corvallis, and got office and home numbers for Karen Stokes, M.D.

Max answered the phone.

“Petra Connor,” he said. “We were just sitting down for dinner.”

“Sorry, I'll call back later.”

“No, it's fine, just cold cuts. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Picturing Max's ruddy, mustachioed face, she told him about reviewing the Blank file, gave him the same nosy-intern story.

“You're thinking of reworking it?” he said.

“Don't know yet, Max. Depends on what I learn.”

“I hope you decide yes. Maybe you can do better than me.”

“I doubt that.”

“You never know, Petra. New blood and all that.”

“You and Shirley, that's a lot of detective ability.”

“Poor Shirley. So . . . what can I tell you?”

“I really don't know, Max. Seems to me you guys did all you could.”

“I thought we did . . . I still think about that one from time to time. Poor little girl. Everyone said she was aggressive, had a temper, but looking at her . . . such a tiny little thing. It was brutal.”

The autopsy report stared up at Petra. Jewell's stats. Five-one, ninety-four pounds.

Occipital injuries . . .

What was the point of all this?

Max Stokes was saying, “. . . with the parents—actually just one parent, the mother. Plus that boyfriend of hers.”

“Solid citizens,” said Petra.

“My gut pegged him, Thomas Crisp, as the bad guy. Your typical trash boyfriend scenario, maybe gets a little too close to the daughter, you know? The coroner said Jewell had been having sex for a few years. I'd bet Crisp abused her, that would be a good reason for running away. I never asked him directly, just hinted around and he got squirrelly. Plus, he had a felony record. Bad checks, attempted welfare fraud. I know it's not sex crimes or murder, but lowlife is lowlife. His attitude in general was bad—he didn't even fake caring about Jewell. I checked him out carefully, even drove up to Bakersfield. Guy had an alibi. During the time of the murder, he'd been on a three-day bender with a bunch of other lowlifes. First they bar-crawled, then they bought more booze and went back to the mother and Crisp's trailer. Neighbors in the trailer park complained and the police paid a call. Crisp was definitely in Bakersfield the whole time, everyone saw him.”

“What about the mother?”

“She was there, too. Borderline retarded, if you ask me. She did seem to care a little, but every time she started to cry Crisp nudged her in the ribs and she shut up. His big concern was who was going to pay for the burial.”

“I read your notes,” said Petra.

Max sighed. “What can I tell you. Sometimes you don't win.”

“Ain't that the truth. Enjoying retirement?”

“I dunno. I've been thinking of getting a security job. Just to get me out of the house.”

“Sure,” said Petra. “Makes sense.”

“Anyway, good luck on little Jewell.”

“One more thing, Max. I don't see any transfer.”

“I wanted to transfer it to Shirley and she wanted to take it. Because she'd already started. Actually, it was she who came to me, wanting to partner. Because she'd caught another case, couple of years before, that probably wasn't the same guy but there were some similarities.”

“Really?” said Petra.

“Yeah,” said Max. “Another head-bashing, but not a kid, some woman, up in the Hollywood Hills. That one, a dog got killed, too, what was the name . . . I'm having a senior moment.”

The name was Coral Langdon. Petra said, “Shirley thought the cases might be tied in?”

“At first she did, but in the end, she didn't. Too many differences, what with Jewell being a poor runaway and the other one—what was her name—being a financially comfortable divorcée with a nice house. That one—Lambert, Lan-something . . . anyway, that one Shirley had worked the ex-husband as the main suspect because the divorce hadn't been friendly. Plus, neighbors said he'd always hated the dog. He claimed an alibi, too, but it wasn't much of one. Sitting at home watching the tube, no one else in the apartment. But Shirley never found anything to contradict him and one neighbor did say his car had been in his driveway around the time of the murder.”

“How come Shirley didn't get Jewell Blank's case?”

“I assumed she did,” said Max.

“If she did, there's no record of it.”

“Hmm. Don't know what to tell you, Petra.”

“In the end Shirley didn't think Blank and the woman with the dog were similars.”

“The only thing similar was head-bashing—Langdon, that was it. Something Langdon. So Shirley didn't work Jewell, huh?”

“Doesn't appear so.”

“That's kind of funny,” said Max. “You remember Shirley. Tenacious. Real tragedy what happened to her, I didn't even know she skied.”

She thanked Max, apologized for interrupting his dinner, hung up, and turned to Coral Langdon's file.

The murdered woman's ex was an insurance salesman named Harvey Lee Langdon. Insurance tipped you off to the best of motives, but Harvey had sold property casualty, not term life. Shirley had taken a close look at Coral's papers anyway, and contacted a bunch of insurance companies. No juicy policy, anywhere. No financial ties at all between Coral and Harvey since their divorce three years ago, except for five hundred a month alimony. Coral Langdon had worked as an executive secretary to an aerospace honcho, made a fine living on her own.

The dog, Brandy, had been a bone of contention in the Langdon marriage. Harvey had expressed dismay at his ex-wife's demise but had smirked when hearing about the cockapoo. Shirley had transcribed his comments verbatim, quotation marks and all:

“Stupid little bitch. Know what her motto was? The world is my toilet.”

A shrink could have fun with that. Harvey had definitely been worth looking at, but Shirley had made no progress along those lines.

The modus and the crime scenes—two females bludgeoned in wooded areas of Hollywood—had caused the tenacious Detective Lenois to make a connection between Langdon and Jewell Blank. Had she been unimpressed by the June 28 angle?

Most likely she hadn't noticed.

Would Shirley—astute, dogged, dedicated—have missed something like that?

Sure. The date of a homicide was something Petra never paid much attention to. As a detective, Shirley would have zeroed in on crime scene details.

The head-bashing. Like Isaac said, it was rare.

In the end, Shirley had decided the cases weren't linked, but she hadn't known about two previous head-bashings on the exact same date.

And now Shirley was dead and, once again, there was no evidence the case had been transferred.

Petra studied the photocopied driver's license attached to the file. Coral Langdon had been an attractive woman with a tan, oval face under a short cap of blond hair. Five-seven, one-thirty. Slender. Probably strong, too. According to Shirley's notes, Coral had worked out at a gym, studied kickboxing.

Meaning whoever had brained her was in good shape. And stealthy enough to get her from behind.

Petra visualized it. Langdon taking the cockapoo out for a night-time stroll, he steps out of the shadows . . .

Jewell Blank would've been a whole lot easier. A tiny little girl in the park.

No doubt, Shirley had wondered about that, decided it wasn't a match.

But
six
cases on the same date, that was different.

Like Isaac said, statistically significant.

Like Isaac said.

Petra figured that phrase would be adhering to her brain for a while.

She went back and studied the first two murders in detail. Marta Doebbler, the twenty-nine-year-old housewife who'd gone to see a play at the Pantages, left for the ladies' room and didn't return, and Geraldo Solis, the Wilshire Division case. Elderly man found sitting at his breakfast room table, brains leaking onto a plate of sausage and eggs. Now there was a charming detail.

Nothing else about the Solis file sparked her interest, but a notation on Marta Doebbler gave her pause: Doebbler had been called out of the theater by a cell phone squawk, and the detectives had traced the call to a pay phone around the corner from the theater.

Had someone lured her out? The fact that she'd complied, coupled with her body being dumped in her own car—unlike the others—said it was someone she knew. The detectives had interviewed the husband, an engineer named Kurt Doebbler, and remarked that he seemed “overly calm.” Doebbler had an alibi: home with his and Marta's nine-year-old daughter, Katya.

She reread the Solis file. No sign of breaking and entering. Someone the old man had known as well?

No apparent connection between the victims but
could it have been
the same person?

She jotted down the names of the D's on both cases. Conrad Ballou and Enrique Martinez on Doebbler, another unfamiliar name on Solis, DII Jacob Hustaad, Wilshire Division.

Barney Fleischer was still at his desk, pen in his hand, but reading. Blue folder of his own. She'd always thought of Barney as end-of-career deadweight. Was he still working cases?

She approached him again, said, “Sorry, but I was wondering if you knew any of these guys.”

He closed the murder book—a file labeled “Chang”—and examined the list. “Got a cold-case assignment?”

“Self-imposed assignment,” said Petra. “The kid, Gomez, thought I should look at a few old files.”

“The genius,” said Barney. “Nice kid. I like him.”