The Rabbit Factory (28 page)

"Fuck my record," he said. "I'm the best Narc they got. I could walk into the Chiefs office, piss on his desk, tell him it's part of a new urine-testing technique I'm developing, and he'd say, Keep up the good work. I don't want to give up the homicide collar

The Rabbit Factory

because I personally believe that people who kill other people should be shot or fried or at least locked up for life."

"I'm sorry for the crack about your record," I said. "I didn't know you were so passionate."

"This is why I can't work Homicide, Lomax. I hate the tradeoffs that the dickhead D.A.s are willing to make. Trachtenberg was a partially law-abiding citizen, whose biggest crime was he wanted to cop some dope. Santiago is thirty-seven years old and Ills been infecting the system since he was seventeen. I hate that lie gets to skip, just because he happens to know some shit iibout an even worse bunch of scumbags. I told the D.A. don't make the deal. It's like telling Lassie not to lick his balls."

I decided this would not be a good time to remind Sergeant Zil'fer that Lassie is a girl and has no balls. I thanked him and asked if he'd please follow up with the victim's family.

"Not my favorite thing to do," he said. "But I know you got I your plate full with this Lucas homicide."

"Yeah," I said. Even someone as wired into the Department us Ziff still had no idea that we were chasing a serial killer.

It was about 12:45, and I was getting hungry. I went to the I col fee room, poured myself some of the lukewarm brown bevtr:ige that was in the pot and grabbed a few cookies from a box llli.it some thoughtful wife had sent in for her husband's buddies who had to work on Sunday.

The only one not working today was the voice inside my IIumcI. He wasn't saying a word, but, as usual, he wrote me a list Inl reminders on my mental chalkboard. Stop Vicki Pardinifrom 'hilling your brother. Take Diana out two more times so you can (t't to the date when you can sleep with her. Find a cure for 'turner, so Hugo Cordner won't die. Get your fat ass to the gym,

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I and stop eating cookies. I was about to grab one more cookie, just to show him who's boss, when Terry bolted into the room. "Code Blue. Pack your bags."

'Code Blue' is not real cop-speak. It may be hospital-speak. In fact it may only be TV show hospital-speak. But Terry likes to use it instead of any of the official LAPD language that would indicate Emergency. Sometimes, when he's feeling real creative, he cups one of his hands and broadcasts into it, "Calling all cars, calling all cars." I think it's something he picked up from Dick Tracy.v I chucked the cookies and coffee and ran back to my desk for my jacket and a radio. Terry filled me in. "Another homicide at Familyland. White female. Stabbed in the ladies room. She's a civilian. A tourist." "Number three in a series?" I said.

"Don't know yet," he said. "At this point, anybody farts in that jurisdiction, you and me are on the guest list. There's a chopper meeting us at the helipad. They don't want us to deal with Sunday traffic." I grabbed my stuff, and we headed for the door. I took one last look at the chalkboard in my head. The cure for cancer would have to wait another day.

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The trip to Familyland was swift and angry. A black and white was waiting for us in front of the station house, lights flashing, rear doors open. Two uniforms were in the front seat, Brown and Pagnozzi. llrown is black and Pagnozzi is green. White actually, but he's only had about six months on the job. Brown, on the other hand, is months away from his twenty years, but the smart money says he's going to re-up. Young cop, old cop; white cop, (black cop; silent cop, chatty cop; it was a marriage made in leadquarters.

"Good afternoon, Detectives," Brown said. "My partner and were trying to figure out whether we wanted to finish eating hii1 lunch or taxi you boys to the Federal Building. Thank you 'for helping us make the wise choice."

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Biggs and Brown were old friends, and ball busting was the "cornerstone of their relationship. "Hell, Brownie," Terry said, My partner and I are so critical to this homicide investigation dial we have to be there no matter whose two-hour lunch gets Hit ked up. The Governor himself is counting on you to get us

to a fucking kiddy park so we can look at a dead body in record time." He exhaled. "Or he just needs a couple of scapegoats, and it's our turn in the barrel."

"Somebody's got a major bug up his ass," Brown said.

"I got every politician in the state up my ass," Terry said. "So hurry it up. They can't hang anybody out to dry until we get there."

Terry's flare-up was out of character. "Chill out," I said. "Witch hunts happen, but it's too soon to crucify us yet. This thing has gone from one murder to three in a week. How long did it take them to nail the Unibomber or Son of Sam? We have to get a few more at bats before there's a public flogging."

"Sorry," he said. "I don't usually give a shit about LAPD politics. I'm not sure why this one got to me."

"So we should keep going to the helipad?" Brown said. "I was about to tell Pags to make a U-turn and head for the nearest psych ward."

I knew Pagnozzi was a cowboy when he peeled out before our asses even hit the back seat. He drove like he must have dreamed about when he was a kid wanting to be a cop. The car careened to a screeching stop at the Fed Building in less than six minutes. He jumped out and opened my door. Brown turned to Terry and said, "Sorry, pal, I don't do doors or windows. Have a nice day."

I thanked Pagnozzi and followed Terry into the building through a revolving door, where we hit our first security checkpoint. We ID'd ourselves to the corporal at the desk and were escorted to an elevator by another Marine who had the steely eyes and square jaw you see in the recruiting posters.

Private Square Jaw rode with us to the top of the Fed and

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The Rabbit Factory

lurned us over to yet another Marine who escorted us to a i hopper. For the remainder of the eighteen-minute trip to Familyland, Terry didn't say much and I said even less. For one I hing, we didn't have much to say. But mostly because you can't he heard on a helicopter unless you talk into headsets, and I hat's about as private as Open Mike Night at the Comedy Club. We landed in an empty parking lot, were whisked to a black

I Suburban, then transferred to a turbo-charged golf cart that barided us along the Lamaar Underground Highway. We came to

I .1 stop at a sign that said Area 47, Space Shuttle Restaurant.

I'arking lot to restaurant, four minutes.

"We should use this travel agent more often," Terry Said, as we followed our guide through a passageway that would take us to the World Above. Terry is funny, but he doesn't know when to draw the line. Not everyone is in the mood to yuck it up at a homicide invesI Ration. "Could that please be the last funny thing you say until we're alone again?" I said politely. "It could," he said. "And bless you for thinking that was actu.illy funny. We artists need positive feedback to keep us going." The Space Shuttle looked like a Burger King on steroids. Jessica hadn't set up shop yet, so it hadn't yet taken on the liirniliar trappings of a crime scene. But the kitchen was closed, I he cash registers were silent, and the people who stayed had been herded to one corner of the room. Crime scene in the making. I "Detectives!" It was Curry. He looked happy to see us, which I suspected was as happy as he was going to be all day.

I "This is our worst nightmare," he said. "They killed a woman. A guest. She was here on vacation with her husband

and two kids. We've got the family in a booth in the corner. A doc is taking care of the daughter who is hysterical." "Where's the victim?" Terry said.

Curry tipped his head, and we followed him toward the rear of the place. "Where's your shadow?" I asked. "Amy? She's with the family. The lawyers are circling the next of kin like birds of prey. She's actually making sure they don't jump the gun." "Glad she has something to do besides hang with us."

"I can't muzzle her, but I told her not to fuck with you guys. She's all balls, but this has got her pretty shook up. This will probably make her easier to work with." Terry couldn't resist. "Or harder."

The victim was Judy Kaiser. White, forty-four, a soccer Mom with a minivan. She worked as a fundraiser at the local PBS station in Minneapolis. Her husband, Russell, was a minister and a Civil War buff. The kids, Luther, eleven, .ind Becky, fourteen, were 4-H and drug-free. The Kaisers were is close to apple pie as you could get in MTV America. The only Ihings missing were Wally and The Beaver.

Judy's number must really have been up. Not only had she picked the wrong bathroom at the wrong time, but the Kaisers had been scheduled to visit Familyland during Spring Break a month ago. Unfortunately for Judy, she came down with the flu. So she and Russell decided to take the kids out of school for a l

She had gone to the bathroom as soon as the family entered I lie restaurant. Ten minutes later, she hadn't returned, so young I tt'cky went to see if her mother was okay; an experience that will haunt her for the rest of her life. She opened the bathroom door and screamed bloody murder, which it literally had been. The father and Lori Lum, the restaurant manager, another long

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time Lamaar employee, ran back to the bathroom.

Reverend Kaiser is a volunteer ambulance driver, so he knows dead when he sees it. Judy was definitely dead. He knew enough not to touch the knife in her chest, but he knelt at her side, which contaminated some of the scene. He calmed his daughter, while Ms. Lum paged Buddy Longo, setting off a chain of events similar to NORAD going on Red Alert.

The first two security people arrived within thirty seconds. They made some major dumb decisions, not because they were dumb, but because they were trained to protect the company's image, instead of the crime scene.

The Lamaar people were like terriers about their image. Even the yellow crime-scene tape ended up stretched from one inside wall to another, far from the eyes of the happy park patrons on the other side of the metal gates.

Terry and I peeked in at the body. Mrs. Kaiser was fish-belly white in a pool of her own blood. A dagger was sticking out of her chest. I got close enough to see that the knife had been driven through a plastic bag which contained an envelope. There was writing on the front, but the blood on the baggie made it impossible to read. I could, however, make out something else inside the plastic. A flipbook.

I called over my shoulder to Brian. "Did you see the murder weapon?"

"It's a letter opener with one of our characters on the handle," he said. "I'm pretty sure it's something we sell. I sent some of our people to the gift shops to check it out."

"Did you touch anything?"

"Not me. But the daughter, the husband, the restaurant manager, and one of our security people have blood on their shoes.

Kaiser remembers touching his wife's face and feeling for a pulse, but he swears he didn't touch the weapon."

"Lock this bathroom up till the lab rats get here," I said. "Any witnesses? And don't hold shit back, or this is just going to be number three in a never-ending series of theme park homicides." We sat at a table in the center of the room, and Brian signaled to a young couple to join us. The man was in his early thirties, athletic looking, buzz cut, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans like your typical tourist. Undercover Security. The woman had an innocent girlish face, and, with the right wig and makeup, could pass for fifteen. Right now, she looked like the guy's age appropriate wife. "These are two of our best security people," Brian said. "We've beefed up the detail in the past few days, but these guys have been with us for a while. This is Karen Gill." The woman I nodded. Great smile; nice decoy. Before Brian could go on, the man stuck his hand out. "Hi. I Kenneth Dahl. D-A-H-L. Terrible thing, what happened today. iTrrrible." "Detectives Lomax and Biggs," I said. "Nice to meet you, Ken."

"I prefer Kenneth," he said.

"Okay, Kenneth," I said. I didn't look at Terry, because if he I were smirking, I didn't want to catch it. "Tell us what happened." "We were walking past the Arctic Expedition, when we heard the Buddy Longo," he said. He hesitated, not sure we understood. "Go ahead, we know what it is," I said.

"We're not supposed to blow our cover, so we didn't run. We walked real fast like we were a couple of hungry tourists. Karen and Lori, the manager, went into the ladies room. I went

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I I over to the dad and the screaming kid."

"No question that the woman was dead," Karen said. "I told Lori to shut down the kitchen and lower the electric gates." "To keep people in?"

"Out. You can't lock guests in. Not if they want to get out."

"What are you talking about?" Terry said. "Of course you can lock guests in. It's a crime scene." Brian jumped in. "Guys, we train our people to contain, but not detain." "Meaning?"

"Get control of a bad situation, but don't detain the innocent bystanders." Terry raised his voice. "How the hell do you know who's innocent?"

"I think in this case our people made a decision that there was an adverse situation, but that whoever did it wouldn't stick around to finish their lunch." "Yeah, I'd say a woman with a knife in her chest is an adverse situation," Terry said. "Good call, Kenneth, but not so smart on letting people go." "It wasn't just our call," I-Prefer-Kenneth said. "Even before we shut down, a dozen security guys showed up. One of the suits tells the crowd we have a medical emergency. 'Sorry to mess up your lunch, but you all have to leave, and we're gonna give you each a fifty-dollar gift certificate you can use at any of our gifts shops or other restaurants.'" The door that connects to the underground passageway opened and Jessica Keating and her merry band of criminalists trooped in. "Afternoon, gentlemen," she said. "We've got to stop meeting like this."

Terry was livid. "Hello, Jessica. We've got one dead body and about a hundred possible eyewitnesses who might be able to ID the killer. Oh, no, wait. The crack security team sent them ray and gave them spending money."