Riptide (14 page)

Draper was silent. She glanced at his profile, his mouth set, eyes far away. Maybe he felt what she did, bewilderment and sadness.

“You’re saying all of them were young?” Casey asked. “Maybe it was a pajama party that got out of control.”

It wasn’t like him to be this way. Draper sensed it, too. Irritated, he glanced at Casey.

“Not all of them, no,” Parkinson said. “I would say one or two of the victims had passed the age of twenty five. After that point, age becomes almost impossible to judge, at least until visible signs of old age set in.”

“How long have they been here?” Jennifer asked.

“I can’t determine the postmortem interval precisely. To do that, we would need some datable material—coins or an old newspaper, say.”

Or a diary, she thought.

“But,” he continued, “I’m willing to state that they have been
in situ
longer than seventy-five years.”

“And that means it’s not a crime scene,” Draper said. He saw Jennifer’s questioning look. “Are you familiar with the Safe Environmental Quality Act?”

“Should I be?”

“It’s a set of California statutes that establish the protocol for dealing with exposed human remains. Those dating back more than seventy-five years aren’t handled as police business. When that much time has passed...”

“It’s history,” she said, understanding.

Draper nodded. “That’s the cutoff point. After seventy-five years, whoever’s responsible is presumed to be past the point of prosecution. The law has no further interest in the matter.”

She wondered if the law would feel different after seeing the diary.

Casey looked dubious. “So we’re looking at a serial killer. From seventy-five years ago.”

“Or longer,” Parkinson said. “The remains could date back to the earliest days when this house was inhabited.” He looked at Jennifer. “You don’t happen to know when that was?”

“I believe the house went up in 1908.”

“A full century ago. That would be the earliest possible date.”

“You’d think a multiple murderer operating back then would get some attention,” Casey said. “I mean, Jack the Ripper sure as hell did.”

The mention of that name startled her. She had to remind herself that the Ripper was probably the only old-time serial killer who was still generally known.

“Jack the Ripper left his victims in plain view,” Draper said. “This guy was craftier. He kept them hidden.”

“Even so, this many disappearances in a small community had to send up a major red flag.”

“Not if they were widely spaced. Let’s say the victims were targeted one at a time, at irregular intervals, in different jurisdictions, with no consistent victimology or M.O. The authorities might have had no clue that the cases were connected.”

“Yeah, but serial killers don’t work that way. They don’t change their M.O.”

Draper waved off the objection. “They don’t change their
signature
. The M.O. can vary. Look at the Zodiac Killer. No consistent M.O. He used whatever weapon was available. The M.O. is selected opportunistically—whatever works. The signature is what they can’t control.”

Jennifer was familiar with the distinction. The modus operandi was the practical plan used by the criminal. The signature was a personal touch that served no purpose other than the satisfaction of some deep-seated urge. Binding a victim with duct tape was an M.O. Urinating on the victim was a signature.

Jack the Ripper’s signature was the postmortem mutilation of the bodies. He could have done it just as easily in this cellar as in the street.

Much more easily, in fact, with no risk of detection. And since the bodies were hidden forever, no one might know that the maniac was at large. The disappearances might be chalked up to a variety of causes. There would be none of the extra police surveillance that the notoriety of the London murders had brought.

If he really was the Ripper, Edward Hare had learned from his mistakes in England. By the time he reached Venice, he was more cunning, more sophisticated. He could kill a half dozen women and girls, and the crimes would never be fitted into any pattern.

“Well, there’s one bright spot, Silence,” Casey said. “At least your ancestor was smart.”

She bristled. “Nice and tactful. Thanks.”

“Your ancestor?” Parkinson asked.

“Her family’s owned this house forever.” Casey’s shoulder lifted in an insolent shrug. “Didn’t she mention that detail?”

“I didn’t have the chance.”

“I guess it’s not something you’d want to brag about.”

Draper stared him down. “That’s enough, Sergeant.”

Casey smirked and turned away. Jennifer hated him. She could have punched his face.

“I don’t know exactly when my great-grandfather took possession of the house,” she said. “It could have been 1908. He could have been the original owner. Or maybe not. There are family records where the information might be listed, but I—I’m having trouble tracking them down.”

“Who has those records?” Draper asked.

“My brother, Richard. At least, he’s supposed to have them. He inherited them. But he may have lost them by now.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He’s...not well. He has schizophrenia.”

Parkinson looked interested. “Does mental illness run in your family?”

“Jesus, Alan,” Draper said.

Jennifer met the man’s eyes. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, it does.”

There was a tense stillness in the cellar, broken when Draper said, “Well, if you do recover those records, let me know.”

“I thought the law had no interest in the matter.”

“The law may not. But I do.”

She remembered his secret habit of kissing a crucifix for luck at a crime scene. He cared, even when he didn’t have to.

“So if this isn’t a police case,” she asked, “what do we do? Call a museum, a funeral parlor...?”

“County has a forensic anthropologist on staff,” Parkinson said. “Even though it’s not technically a crime scene, it still has to be handled with due diligence. A lot of evidence can be lost if the bodies are disinterred incorrectly. Their precise positioning has to be recorded. Then the bones are bagged and labeled, and—hold on. This area appears to have been disturbed.”

He pointed at the spot where the tin box had lain. .

“You see that, Roy?” Parkinson asked. “The dirt’s been sifted.”

Draper bent down for a better look. “There are dust and cobwebs on the rest of the soil, except for that patch. Sergeant Wilkes, you didn’t disturb the scene?”

“I didn’t touch a thing,” Casey said. “And I specifically instructed
her
to keep her hands off.”

The edge in his voice irked her, and she responded a little too sharply. “I didn’t require any instructions from you.” The fact that she was being totally hypocritical didn’t prevent her from being pissed off.

“It almost looks as if an item was buried here, and removed.” Parkinson glanced at Jennifer. “You’re quite certain you didn’t... find anything?”

She could tell them, of course. She could reveal all. Show them the diary, let them take it from her. There would be no serious consequences. Draper had said it wasn’t a crime scene.

But she couldn’t share her secret, not yet. Not until she knew how it impacted her family—above all, Richard.

“All I found was a nest of skeletons in my cellar,” she said. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Of course it is.” Draper didn’t sound quite sure.

“Well”—Parkinson started to rise—“I suppose it could just be...”

His voice trailed away as Jennifer became aware of a peculiar thrumming sound.

“Oh hell,” Parkinson added. “I hate these.”

Hate what? she thought, and then an aftershock shuddered through the cellar, rattling the walls, dislodging showers of dust from the plumbing pipes in the ceiling.

She took a step toward the staircase, but when no one else moved she forced herself to stand still and wait it out.

Slowly the wave passed, leaving the cellar intact.

“I hate them, too,” she heard herself say. It seemed strange to comment on something Parkinson had said hours ago. Except it hadn’t been hours, but only a few seconds.

“I kind of enjoy them.” That was Casey. “They’re a nice little break in the day.”

“That’s probably why the ground was disturbed,” Draper said. “Either the quake itself or an aftershock spilled fresh dirt onto that spot.”

“Yes.” Parkinson resumed rising. “That must be it.”

Casey reached out to assist him, but Draper warned him off with a shake of his head. As the pathologist rose, Jennifer saw that he’d stashed a pair of metal crutches by his side. He leaned on them as he struggled upright.

Jennifer glanced down and saw plastic leg braces extending below the pathologist’s pants legs to his shoes. When she looked up, she saw Parkinson watching her eyes.

“M.S.,” he said wryly. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

“How so?”

“That it’s not Parkinson’s. You’d think if I had to have a degenerative nerve disease, I’d at least get the one bearing my name.”

Multiple sclerosis could strike at any age, but typically the first symptoms appeared before age forty. Parkinson looked to be about forty-five. “How long have you had it?” she asked.

“Onset was two years ago. It’s progressing fast. No remissions as yet. And yes, it’s likely to get a lot worse.”

She thought of Richard, the rapid progress of his disease, and how it had destroyed his life. She thought that healthy people didn’t appreciate how lucky they were. They should give thanks every day. Every single day.

The four of them started up the stairs, climbing without hurry in deference to Parkinson’s slow gait.

She fell into step in front of Casey. Over her shoulder she murmured to him. “You’re acting like an asshole.”

His position on the lower stair served to equalize their height. His breath tickled her ear. “Who says I’m acting?”

“Look, I’m sorry if I was rude yesterday—”

“Rude? Rude’s nothing. I deal with rude all the time. That’s no biggie.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem is...forget it.”

“Just tell me.”

“The problem is, you know how I feel about you. And you don’t take it seriously. You treat me like a joke.”

That stung. “I don’t mean to.”

“Exactly what did I do yesterday that was so unacceptable? I mean, besides rushing over here to check out your problem when I had a million other priorities?”

“I never asked you—”

“You didn’t have to ask. I wanted to help.”

“Now you’ve got me feeling like an asshole.”

“Turnabout is fair play, Tiny Dancer.”

“Don’t call me Tiny Dancer,” she said automatically, but her heart wasn’t in it.

They emerged from the cellar through the trapdoor. “For the time being,” Parkinson said as Draper helped him up, “the remains will have to be left where they are. Later today, or first thing tomorrow, our forensic anthropologist will disinter the specimens.”

Jennifer wished he wouldn’t call them specimens. “Is there any chance they can be identified from medical records?”

“Unfortunately, no. Hospitals sold off their old X-rays back in the seventies, for their silver content.”

“What’s the point, anyway?” Casey asked. “Like Roy said, there’s nobody to prosecute.”

“The point”—Parkinson’s tone turned frosty—“would be to give these women a proper burial.”

“Does that really matter?”

sixteen

The shaken city was a traffic-snarled mess. It took her an hour to reach Sirk’s house in the Hollywood Hills.

Small but immaculately landscaped, the house lay at the end of a cul-de-sac, overhanging one of the canyons on stilts that looked no stronger than matchsticks.

When she rang the bell, the door opened almost at once.

“Jennifer,” Harrison Sirk said with a slightly bleary smile. Though it was only two o’clock, he seemed to have been drinking. “Good of you to come so promptly.”

“My pleasure.” She extended her hand, but he didn’t take it.

“Sorry, I don’t shake hands. Germs, you know. It’s nothing personal.” Weaving a little, he led her inside. “I’ve always been averse to dirt and disease. Hospitals terrify me. All those sick people—frightful.”

The house was uncomfortably warm, the thermostat dialed high. Cats—at least three of them—slinked among a clutter of modernistic statuary and potted ferns. The heat, the profusion of plants, and the glare through the wide windows made her feel she was in a hothouse.

“And yet you’ve been to crime scenes,” she said.

“Oh, crime scenes don’t trouble me at all. I would rather spend two hours at a homicide scene than two minutes in a doctor’s waiting room. I suppose a psychologist could explain why. But then, you’re a psychologist, aren’t you?”