Kane (19 page)

“You’re saying the guy’s screwin’ with us?” asked Deluca.

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“That’s based on the assumption our killer was driving the plumbing truck,” Snead interjected.  “A fairly large assumption.”

“Maybe, but it’s the best lead we have,” Barrello pointed out.  “Unfortunately, neither the gate guards nor the construction workers could give a description of the driver, except that he was white.  We’ve started checking paint shops and magnetic sign companies.”

“Good idea,” said Snead.  “That’s the sort of thinking we need around here.”

“Kane suggested it.”

Snead’s sunny look clouded over.  “Anything else?”

“Two things,” said Barrello.  “When Kane was in the Pratt house, he found fibers on a bathroom doorknob, close to where we think the husband was strangled.  We found fibers on the kid’s door, too.  They all matched the clothesline used in the killings.  We also discovered that somebody had disabled the lights on the Pratts’ garage-door opener.  Glued in the bulbs.”

“I called SID back to the Larsons’ house,” I added.  “They found fibers on the doorknobs there, too.  In our case, a feed wire to the opener light had been cut.”

Snead glared.  “Hold on, Kane.  Why wasn’t this in yesterday’s supplemental?”

“The lab findings came in late.  I didn’t have time to—”

“In the future,
make
time,” warned Snead.  “I thought I made myself absolutely clear concerning the importance of keeping paperwork current.  As long as I’m running this investigation, sloppy work will not be tolerated.  Is that understood?”

I smiled at Snead’s revealing slip.  “Yes, sir.  Perfectly.”

“This might be a good time to reiterate that this task force is a
joint
effort,” said Huff.  “LAPD isn’t running the show.”

Snead scowled.  “Sorry.  Didn’t mean to imply we were.”

“Fine,” said Huff.  “Lou, you have anything else?”

Barrello nodded.  “Kane’s come up with some interesting theories.  Maybe I should let him go over those.”

Huff turned to me.  “Detective?”

“They’re hunches, mostly,” I said.  “But before we get into that, maybe I should hit the Larson lab results.”

“Go ahead.”

Without referring to notes, I gave a quick summary of the Palisades lab findings, which had come in late the previous afternoon.  Of the different categories I covered—blood, hair, swabs, fingerprints, footprints, fingernail scrapings, bite marks, and toxicology—nothing useful had turned up, with the exception of confirmation from the forensic odontologist that the bites on the victims at both crime scenes had come from the same person.  That, and the discovery of several head hairs found at the Larson scene not matching those of the victims.  Three hairs were similar in scale count, core size, and color—black.  Another was similar to these except in color, having been dyed to match.  All were dormant, third-growth-state tologen hairs.  As for loose pubic hair, combings yielded two from Mrs. Larson not matching hers or her husband’s.  Like the found head hairs, no sheath cells were present, so there was no chance of blood grouping or DNA comparison.

When I’d finished, Sal Fuentes, Barrello’s partner, spoke up.  “What about hair and print comparisons?  If we come up with matching unknowns at both scenes, it could narrow things down.”

“No results on that yet.”

One of the detectives who had been detailed to the task force from the Hollywood Division jumped in.  “Your original report mentioned you found coke on the premises.  Any drug connection?”

“I’m working on that.”

“How about ballistics?” asked Huff.

“Not much there.  We recovered fragments of a .25-caliber slug.  There may be enough for a comparison if we find the gun.”

“Anything on the hair dye?” asked another detective from the Orange County contingent.

“Black.  The lab says there’s no way to match it to a specific brand.”

“So bottom line, aside from a few unidentified hairs and fingerprints and some construction guys who can’t remember much about a guy in a white van, we don’t have shit,” said Deluca, summing things up.

“Right.”

The room fell silent.  Like me, every investigator there knew that forensic evidence solved TV shows; in real life it usually took a witness or informant, something we didn’t have.  At last someone asked, “The doorknob fibers that Barrello mentioned—how’s that fit?”

“Extra lengths of clothesline were found at both scenes,” I explained.  “Matching fibers on the hallway knobs suggest that at some point the killer tied the children’s doors shut.”

“And the fibers on the bedroom doors?”

“I think that’s where the killer left the husbands while he was busy with the women.  After trussing up the men, I think he choked them to the point of unconsciousness, cut off their eyelids, and made them watch.”

“Jesus,” whispered Huff.

“The guy tampering with the garage-opener lights may also be significant,” I continued.

“This I gotta hear,” said another detective from the Hollywood Division.

“At first that didn’t make much sense to me, either,” I admitted.  “Then I started wondering how the killer managed to find his way around the houses so well.  He slips in, shuts off the power, disables the phones, makes his way upstairs, locks in the kids, and proceeds to the parents’ room without a hitch … and he does all this in the dark.  It took me a while just to locate the Larsons’ power panel, and that was during the day.”

“So?”

“I think the killer knew the layout.  I think he had been there before.”

“I’m not following,” interrupted Snead.  “You’re saying the killer broke in twice?  There’s no report of an earlier break-in at either location.”

“Maybe that’s because he planned on coming back and was careful not to leave any sign he’d been there,” I suggested.

“The Larsons’ burglar alarm wasn’t working the night of the murders,” Deluca added.  “A repairman said the main panel looked fried, like somebody had dumped water on it.  Could’ve been the killer during a reconnaissance visit.”

Snead shook his head.  “And he disabled the lights the first time around, too?  Why?”

“Originally I thought the guy planned on doing something out there,” I answered.  “Taking the bodies out that way, for instance, and he didn’t want to attract attention from the neighbors.  But that didn’t explain why he disabled the lights permanently, or why he did it on the first visit, or why on the night of the murders he didn’t simply open the door manually.  Then it occurred to me.  What if the guy got
in
through
the garage—say, during the day when nobody was home—and planned on coming back again that same way late at night?”

“Could’ve happened,” mused Deluca.  “Nobody sets the house alarm during the day, especially if they’re only going to the market or picking up the kids.  And hardly anyone locks the door from the garage into the house.  It’d be easy.”

“Plus, at both scenes the garages were far enough away from the bedrooms that the families might not have heard the garage door opening the second time the guy broke in,” someone else offered.

“The
second
time he broke in?” Snead said dismissively.  “Let’s not get carried away here.  There’s no proof the killer entered through the garage.  The Larson kid could have dumped a soda on the security panel, and a couple dead bulbs don’t mean anything.  The front doors were unlocked.  Why make things complicated?”

“All we know for certain is that the killer left
the doors open when he
exited
,” I said.  “A little too obvious, don’t you think?”

“Another thing,” added Barrello.  “The Pratts’ next-door neighbor said he couldn’t believe Mr. Pratt would leave his house unlocked.  Said he was meticulous about everything, and that if the killer got in that way, he must’ve used a key.”

“I’m not ruling out our guy using a key,” I went on, “but I think we should broaden our thinking.  For instance, there are different kinds of keys.  Right now one of the Larsons’ cars is in a Santa Monica body shop.  I’ll bet their garage-door remote control was left in the car when they dropped it off.  Anybody at the repair shop could’ve used that remote to break in.  An even simpler possibility is that the Larsons left their house key on the ring.  That wouldn’t explain the garage lights being disabled, but it’d be easy enough to check.”

“The Pratts had one of their cars worked on recently, too,” noted Barrello.  “Dented fender.  I looked up the repair invoice this morning.”

“I’m still not buying this garage entry theory,” Snead said grudgingly, “but the possibility of a house key being at a repair shop is worth pursuing.  Nonetheless, I’d like to point out that we’ll have plenty to do without charging off on every wild goose chase that comes up.  A dozen good leads have already come in on the hotline.”

Ignoring Snead, Lieutenant Huff walked to the poster-board chart and wrote “Disabled Garage Lights,” “Prior Entry,”
and “Car Repair”
in the crime-scene columns.  Once he’d finished, he picked up a yellow notepad.  “Okay, before we go on, who’s investigating sign companies for the plumbing van logo?”

“I’m on that,” one of the Orange County guys replied.

Huff made a notation, then continued.  “The car repair-shop angle and the source of any items the killer brought with him have to be looked into as well.  Working on the supposition that the killer knew both families, we should also search for a common friend, coworker, or anything else that might link the victims.”

“How about getting some clerical staff up here to computer-categorize the address books and phone records?” suggested Deluca.  “If the guy does it again, it’d make correlation a lot easier.  We could do the same with the hotline tips.”

“I’ll look into that,” said Snead.  “Any other ideas?”

“I think we need to recanvass the neighborhoods,” I offered.  “See whether anybody saw a white van in the area, possibly with trade markings.  As for the car-repair angle, we might think about searching for someone who’s worked at both repair shops.”

“Good idea,” said Huff.  “Anything else?”

“How about putting out the word to the divisions to be on the lookout for unexplained break-ins?” I continued.  “Same with the Sheriff’s Department.  Assuming our guy enters the victims’ homes at least once before he kills them, maybe we can—”

“That’s
your
assumption,” objected Snead.  “Do you have any idea how many break-ins occur in this city every day?”

“A lot,” I conceded.  “But we could narrow the field.”

“How?”

“By only investigating instances where nothing’s been taken and there’s a young, attractive woman living there.  We could use the garage entry angle, too.”

“It’s worth a shot,” said Huff, again overriding Snead.  “Anything else?  No?  Okay, before we draw up a duty roster, there’s one more thing to cover.  I’ve asked Dr. Sidney Berns from the Department of Psychiatry and Human Behavior at the California College of Medicine to give us his thoughts on the guy we’re looking for.  Dr. Berns is a forensic psychiatrist, and on several occasions he’s served as an expert witness for the Orange County District Attorney’s office.  What he has to say could be helpful.  Sid, you want to come on up?”

As the stranger I had noted earlier made his way forward, a grumbling born of longstanding distrust between the police department and the psychiatric community filtered through the room.  Upon reaching an empty desk at the head of the assembly, Dr. Berns arranged a stack of handwritten notes on the gray metal surface, then withdrew a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles from his coat.  He seemed tired, his pale eyes growing owlish as he donned his glasses.  After shuffling through his papers, he tapped a cigarette from a new pack of Marlboros.  Ignoring the rule against smoking in Los Angeles public buildings, he lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply.

Snead started to object, then apparently changed his mind.  A number of detectives shifted impatiently.  “This’ll be about as productive as watching birds screw,” I noted.

Exhaling a cloud of smoke, Berns glanced in my direction.  “You have something to say, Detective?”

I shrugged.  “No offense, Doc, but—”

“You’re out of line, Kane,” warned Snead.

“No, I want to hear his opinion,” said Berns.  “Speak freely, Detective.”

“Freely?” I replied.  “Okay.  Like I said, no offense, but I’ve been up half the night filling out worthless VICAP forms and assembling material for an FBI profile that won’t do one bit of good, so I find it hard to get too enthusiastic about listening to some guy tell me that the murderer lives in a brick house, or that he has problems with his self-image, or that he hated his mom and butchered two families because God told him to.  What’s the point of excusing this guy’s actions with a load of psychological bull?  I don’t give a damn about his personal problems, and I already know why he’s doing it.  He’s doing it because he likes it.  And he’ll keep doing it till we find him.  Period.”

From the expressions of most present, it appeared a majority of detectives there agreed with me.  Berns took another drag on his cigarette and stubbed it out in a paper coffee cup.  “You’re not the only one who didn’t get much sleep last night, Detective,” he said.  “I was up till three going over the crime-scene reports, and despite your opinion, I think I have something to add.  You
are
right about one thing, though.  Most of what
I’m about to say is conjecture.  It’s based on well established principles and experience with other psychopathic personality inventories, but it’s conjecture nevertheless.”  Berns looked directly at me.  “Let me ask you something, Detective.  Have you ever investigated a serial killing?”