the Two Minute Rule (2006) (22 page)

Pollard dropped off the Hollywood Freeway at Alameda, then cruised south down Alameda parallel with the river. When she reached Fourth Street, she used the Fourth Street Bridge to cross over to the eastern side of the river. The east side was thick with warehouses and train yards and congested with eighteen-wheel cargo trucks. Pollard had been to the river only twice before, once as part of a task force targeting the importation of Iranian drugs and the other as part of a task force tracking a pedophile who brought children from Mexico and Thailand. Pollard had arrived on the scene in the drug case after the body had already been found, but she hadn't been so lucky in the pedophile case. Pollard had discovered the bodies of three small children in a container car, one boy and two girls, and she had not slept after that for weeks. It wasn't lost on Pollard that here she was again, drawn back to the river by death. The Los Angeles River left her feeling creeped out and queasy. Maybe more now because she knew she might break the law.

Pollard was a cop; even though she had left the Feeb eight years ago, she still felt like part of the law enforcement community. She had married a cop, most of her friends were cops, and, like almost every cop she knew, she didn't want to get in trouble with other cops. The L.A. River was a restricted area. Jumping the fence to check out the crime scene would be a misdemeanor offense, but Pollard knew she had to see if Holman's description held up. She had to see for herself.

Pollard drove along Mission Road, following the fence past trucks and workmen until she found the service gate. She parked beside the fence, locked her car, then went to the gate. A dry breeze came out of the east that smelled of kerosene. Pollard was wearing jeans and Nikes and had a pair of Marty's work gloves in case she had to climb. The gate was locked and had been secured with a secondary chain, which she had expected. She also expected that security patrols along the gates had been increased, but so far she hadn't seen anyone. Pollard had hoped she could see the scene well enough from above, but as soon as she reached the gate she knew she would have to climb.

The riverbed was a wide concrete plain cut by a trough and bordered by paved banks that were crowned with fences and barbed wire. She could see the Fourth Street Bridge from the gate, but not well enough to envision the crime scene in her head. Cars crossed the bridge in both directions and pedestrians moved on the sidewalks. The bright morning sun painted a sharp shadow beneath the bridge, cutting across the river. Pollard thought everything about the scene was ugly and industrial--the nasty concrete channel with its lack of life; the muddy trickle of water that looked like a sewer; the weeds sprouting hopelessly from cracks in the concrete. It looked like a bad place to die, and an even worse place for an ex-FBI agent to be arrested for unauthorized entry.

Pollard was pulling on her gloves when a white pickup truck drove out from one of the loading docks and beeped its horn. Pollard thought it was a security patrol, but when the truck drew close she saw it belonged to one of the shipping companies. The driver braked to a stop by the gate. He was a middle-aged man with short grey hair and a fleshy neck.

"Just letting you know. You're not supposed to be here."

"I know. I'm with the FBI."

"I'm just telling you. We had some murders down here."

"That's why I'm here. Thanks."

"They have security patrols."

"Thanks."

Pollard wished he would get the hell on with his business and leave her alone, but he didn't move.

"You have some identification or something?"

Pollard put her gloves away and walked over to the truck, staring at him the way she had stared at criminals she was about to handcuff.

"You have some authority to ask?"

"Well, I work over there and they asked us to keep an eye out. I don't mean anything by it."

Pollard pulled out her wallet, but didn't open it. She had turned in her badge and FBI commission card--which agents called their creds--when she left the Feeb, but her wallet had been a gift from Marty. He had purchased it at the FBI gift shop in Quantico because it was emblazoned with the FBI seal. Pollard kept her hard stare on the driver as she tapped her wallet, making no move to open it but letting him see the red, white, and blue seal.

"We got a report someone down here was taking tourists on tours of the crime scene. Tourists, for Christ's sake. You know anything about that?"

"I never heard anything like that."

Pollard studied him as if she suspected him of the crime.

"We heard it was someone in a white truck."

The fleshy neck quivered and the man shook his head.

"Well, we got a million white trucks down here. I don't know anything about it."

Pollard studied him as if she was making a life-or-death decision, then slipped her wallet back into her jeans.

"If you want to keep your eye out for something, watch for the white truck."

"Yes, ma'am."

"One more thing. Are you down here at night or just during the day?"

"The day."

"Okay then, forget it. You're doing a good job keeping an eye on things. Now move on and let me do my job."

Pollard waited as he drove away, then turned back to the gate. She climbed the gate without much difficulty, then walked down the service drive. Entering the riverbed was like lowering herself into a trench. Concrete walls rose around her, cutting off the city from view, and soon all she could see were the tops of a few downtown skyscrapers.

The smooth flat channel stretched in both directions and the air was still. The kerosene breeze couldn't reach her down here. Pollard could see the Sixth Street and Seventh Street bridges to the south, and the First Street Bridge beyond the Fourth Street Bridge to the north. The channel walls in this part of the river were twenty-foot verticals topped by the fence. They reminded Pollard of a maximum security prison and their purpose was the same. The walls were designed to contain the river during the rainy season. During the rains, the normally pathetic trickle would quickly overflow its trough and climb the higher walls like a raging beast, devouring everything in its path. Pollard knew that once she left the safety of the service ramp, the walls would become her prison, too. If a rush of water surged through the channel, she would have no way out. If a police car rolled up to the fence, she would have no place to hide.

Pollard made her way to the bridge and stepped out of the sun into the shade. It was cooler. Pollard had brought the Times's drawing of the crime scene and Holman's sketch, but she didn't need them to see where the bodies had lain. Four shining irregular shapes were visible on the concrete beneath the bridge, each shape brighter and cleaner than the surrounding pavement. It was always this way. After the bodies had been removed and the crime scene cleared by the police, a hazmat crew had disinfected the area. Pollard had once seen them work. Blood was soaked up with absorbent granules, then vacuumed into special containers to remove all human tissue. Contaminated areas were sprayed with disinfectant, then scoured with high-pressure steam. Now, more than a week later, the ground where each man died glowed like a shimmering ghost. Pollard wondered if Holman had known what they were. She did not step on the clean places; she carefully stepped around them.

Pollard stood between the body shapes and considered the service ramp. It was about eighty yards away and sloped directly toward her. Pollard had an uninterrupted view of the ramp, but she knew this was in broad daylight with no cars parked in the area. Perspectives often changed in the darkness.

No marks remained to locate the positions of the cars, so Pollard opened the map that appeared in the Times. The three cars were pictured under the bridge in a loose triangle between the east columns and the river, with the car at the top of the triangle extending past the north side of the bridge. The car at the left base of the triangle was completely under the bridge, with the last car angled across its rear and a little bit to the east to form the right base. The bodies in the drawing were located relative to the cars and columns and were labeled by name.

Mellon and Ash had been together at the back of Ash's radio car, which was the car at the top of the triangle. A six-pack carton of Tecate had been found on their trunk with four of the bottles missing. Fowler's car was the left base of the triangle; completely under the bridge and nearest the river. His body was shown near the right front fender. Richard Holman's car formed the right base of the triangle, with his body midway between his car and Fowler. Pollard decided that Mellon and Ash had arrived first, which was why they had parked at the north side of the bridge, leaving room for the others. Fowler had probably arrived second and Holman last.

Pollard folded the map and put it away. She studied the four steam-blasted spots on the concrete, no longer drawings on a page but the fading residue of four lives--Mellon and Ash together and Richard Holman nearest the column. Pollard was standing next to Fowler. She moved away and tried to picture their cars and how they were standing at the moment they were shot. If the four men were talking, both Fowler and Holman would have had their backs turned to the ramp. Fowler had probably been perched on his right front fender. Holman might have been leaning against his car, but Pollard couldn't know. Either way, they were facing away from the ramp and wouldn't have seen someone approaching. The shooter had come from behind.

Pollard moved to stand with Mellon and Ash. She positioned herself where their car had been parked. They had been facing south toward Fowler. Pollard imagined herself leaning against their car, having a beer. Mellon and Ash had a clear view of the ramp.

Pollard moved away to circle the columns. She wanted to see if there was another way down to the north, but the walls were hard verticals all the way to the Fourth Street Bridge and beyond. She was still searching to the north when she heard the gate clatter like the rattle of chains. She walked back under the bridge and saw Holman coming down the ramp. Pollard was surprised. She hadn't told him she was coming to the bridge and hadn't expected him to appear. She was wondering what he was doing here when she realized she had heard the gate. Then she heard the scruffing his shoes were making on the gritty concrete surface. He was half a football field away, but she heard him walking, and then she knew why. The towering walls trapped sound just like they trapped water and channeled it like the river.

Pollard watched him approach, but didn't say anything until he arrived, and then she gave him her expert opinion.

"You were right, Holman. They would have heard him coming just like I heard you. They knew the person who killed them."

Holman glanced back at the ramp.

"Once you're down here there's no other way to see it. And at night it's even more quiet than this."

Pollard crossed her arms and felt sick. That was the problem--there was no other way to see it, but the police claimed they saw it another way.

Chapter
25

POLLARD WAS still trying to decide what this meant when Holman interrupted her. He seemed nervous.

"Listen, we shouldn't spend too much time down here. Those guys at the loading docks might call the police."

"How'd you know I would be here?"

"Didn't. I was up on the bridge when you came down the ramp. I saw you jump the fence."

"You just happened to be up there?"

"I've come here a dozen times since it happened. C'mon, let's go back up. I was going to call you--"

Pollard didn't want to go back to the gate; she wanted to figure out why the police had overlooked such an obvious flaw in their case, and was thinking about something Holman had said.

"Waitaminute, Holman. Have you been here at night?"

Holman stopped in the edge of the bridge's shadow, split in two by the light.

"Yeah. Two or three times."

"How's the light at that time of night?"

"They had a three-quarter moon with scattered clouds on the night they were killed. I checked the weather report. You could've read a newspaper down here."

He turned back toward the gate again.

"We better leave. You could get arrested, being down here."

"So could you."

"I've been arrested before. You won't like it."

"Holman, if you want to wait up at the gate, go on. I'm trying to figure out what happened down here."

Holman didn't leave, but it was obvious he wasn't happy about staying. Pollard circled the murder scene, trying to picture the cars and the officers on the night they were killed. She changed their positions like mannequins in a store window, turning each time to stare at the ramp. She rearranged the cars in her mind's eye, thinking maybe she had missed some obvious explanation.

Holman said, "What are you trying to figure out?"

"I'm trying to see if there was some way they wouldn't have seen him."

"They saw him. You just told me they saw him."

Pollard went to the edge of the channel and peered at the water. The channel was a rectangular trough about two feet deep with a sickly trickle along its bottom. The shooter could have hidden down here or maybe behind one of the columns, but only if he had known when and where to expect the four officers, and both possibilities were absurd. Pollard knew she was reaching. The primary rule of an investigation was that the simplest explanation was the most likely. It was no more likely the shooter had lain in wait than he had jumped down from the bridge like a ninja.