Cold Hit Page 5

  This was my kind of coach. One of the other things I liked about Coach Carroll: he was talking to Chooch, not to Alexa or me. On visits from other coaches, Chooch was just furniture in the room, while the coach was selling the two of us on what their program would do.

  “It’s important to me that you get what you want if you become a Trojan, Chooch. But the way to get the things you want in life is to grow as an individual. Inner strength always creates opportunity.”

  Just then, my cell phone rang. It was the third call I’d gotten since Coach Carroll arrived and I could see the frustration in Chooch’s eyes as I fished the phone out of my pocket. He wanted my complete attention on this visit and unfortunately, he wasn’t quite getting it. But a fresh homicide had hit our table at two-thirty this morning and I couldn’t let the first twenty-four hours of Forrest’s investigation go stagnant.

  The other calls had been from the coroner’s office and forensics. No additional material was found at the crime scene. The blood work showed nothing special…a low alcohol count and no drugs. They were still trying to trace the contact lens.

  I opened my cell phone as I left the living room, and went into the den. “Scully,” I said.

  It was a cryptologist who identified herself as Cindy Clark from Symbols and Hieroglyphics. We’d met once previously and I recognized her heavy Southern accent.

  “I’ve translated the tattoo on the vic’s eyelids,” she said.

  “Great! Let’s hear.”

  “The figures are Cyrillic symbols from the old Russian alphabet. They date all the way back to Peter the Great.”

  “Russian?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s a warning.”

  “Go on.”

  “Roughly translated, it means, ‘Don’t wake up.’”

  I started writing that on a slip of paper. “A warning or a statement of fact?”

  “In the book where I found it, it just says that life is bad and it’s better to sleep. But since this John Doe had it on his eyelids, maybe it just refers to him being asleep when his eyes are closed. I don’t know.”

  “Listen Cindy, I really appreciate this, but what I need most right now is to decode that figure eight inside the oval. The case is starting to fall in on me. Can you keep working on that? If you’re at a dead end, maybe you could send it out to experts in other departments?”

  “We already did that. Everything we got back so far doesn’t help much. I have a few possibilities, but we’ve eliminated most of them because they aren’t exact matches and they don’t seem relevant. I think you know Mike Menninger, our head cryptologist. He’s gone over everything. He thinks what we have so far is pretty low-yield stuff and might just produce confusion for y’all.”

  “Let’s hear, anyway.”

  I heard paper rustling, then: “One is a sailing club in Vancouver, Washington, called Pieces of Eight. Their flag is kind of like your symbol, but it’s more just an eight in a circle with no cross-hatching. So we don’t think it’s anything.”

  I agreed, but wrote it down anyway. “Go on.”

  “There’s a symbol from the ancient Greek that looks a little like it, only the eight is sideways, not perpendicular, and it’s closed, not open at the top.”

  “What’s it mean?”

  “It was an academic symbol for a college of philosophers in Athens.”

  “Not very damn likely,” I agreed, but wrote that down, too.

  “Then, just some logos of businesses. A bike shop in the Valley, Eight Mile Bikes, a chicken franchise called Eight Pieces, stuff like that. None of it is close enough to take seriously. Since the perp carved the exact same symbol each time, we think it’s probably a close representation of what he wants. It may be lacking detail, but none of this stuff seems right to us.”

  “Okay, Cindy, I agree. But turn up the heat, will you? I need a break.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She hung up and I opened the murder book so I could stick the slip of paper inside to enter later. When I looked at the index page for John Doe Number Two, who I’d named “Van” because we found him in the L.A. River at Van Alden Avenue, I saw at a glance that some pictures were missing and the material was not organized correctly. I felt a flash of anger at Zack. What had he been doing instead of taking care of this? I closed the binder and walked back into the living room.

  “A good pre-law major is political science,” Pete Carroll was saying. “We have academic advisors who help our players with their majors. They also help our athletes register for the right courses. We have mandatory study halls, and tutors on standby if you need help on a subject.”

  Chooch was leaning forward. “Coach, can we talk just a little more about the program, because I have some questions.”

  “Sure,” the coach said. “Fire away.”

  “Is Coach Sarkisian gonna stay at USC?” Chooch was asking about SC’s brilliant quarterback coach who had recently been promoted to assistant head coach.

  “So far that’s the plan, but one of my jobs, Chooch, is to support my players and my coaches. If people in our system know that there’s opportunity, they flourish. If that means one day Steve Sarkisian takes off to be a head coach somewhere, I’m never gonna stand in his way. In fact, I’ll make some calls and try to help.”

  It went on for another thirty minutes, until Coach Carroll said it was time for him to leave. Franco was still sitting at his feet and before he could stand, our marmalade cat jumped up and landed in the coach’s lap. Obviously, Franco’s mind was made up. He wanted Chooch to wear cardinal and gold.

  We still hadn’t had our visit from Joe Paterno at Penn State, or Karl Dorrell from UCLA. Both visits were scheduled for the following week. But I liked Coach Carroll. After he left, we sat in the living room and talked it through.

  “What a cool guy,” Chooch said.

  “He’s good-looking, too,” Delfina teased, her long black hair and dark eyes shining. She had brought more than I could have imagined into our family since she came to live with us.

  “He sounds like a player’s coach,” Alexa added.

  I nodded, but didn’t want to put in too strong an opinion or use my influence to help Chooch decide.

  “What do you think, Dad?”

  “He’s obviously a quality person. But in the long run, it’s got to be your decision.”

  “I wish he’d talked more about football.”

  “I liked that he didn’t,” Alexa said. “Anybody can come in here and make promises. What he was saying is he wants to build in you a sense of teamwork and inner strength. Let’s face it, if you want success in life, it’s inner strength that counts.”

  8

  After dinner that evening, Alexa and I got into a rare, but somewhat heated, argument.

  It ended up being about Zack.

  We were sitting in our backyard looking out at the shimmering canals of Venice, California. The development was a Disney-esque version of Venice, Italy, designed by a romantic dreamer named Abbot Kinney, back in the thirties. The five-block area was spanned by narrow bridges that arched over three-foot-deep canals. Several of our neighbors had added rowboat-sized gondolas that bobbed like plastic ornaments on the shiny, moonlit water.

  Alexa and I had just popped open two Heinekens, and agreed that Pete Carroll and USC would be a good fit for Chooch, when I decided to get something off my chest. I’m not good at keeping secrets from Alexa, so I launched into my theory on why I thought John Doe Number Four might be a copycat murder, running all the evidence past her.

  She greeted the information in typical Alexa fashion. Her analytical mind dissected and examined what I was saying. When I finished, she nodded in agreement, realizing that there was good reason for my suspicion. But like Jeb Calloway, she wondered how a copycat would know about the symbol carved on Forrest’s chest.

  “It’s something I can’t explain. Maybe it leaked.”

  “Damn,” she said softly. “I was counting on this one to give us something. We already told the press
about finding the bullet. If you’re right, and this is a copycat, I’ll have to figure out how to downplay their expectations.”

  “Why tell those assholes anything?” I said, my anger flaring.

  “Grow up, Shane. It’s a media case in a media town. Once this stuff gets into the news, we can’t stonewall. If we try, all they do is start putting pressure on politicians, who in turn, threaten us. The trick is to find the right balance. Give the press just enough to keep them cool.”

  “And when you can’t hold ’em off anymore, you form a bullshit task force.”

  It sounded accusatory, and she turned to study me more carefully, those big, beautiful eyes suddenly hard and speculative. “You have something more to tell me, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. If you form a task force it’s a vote of no confidence in me and Zack. You put me on this and I want some damn protection.”

  She remained silent, so I argued my case. “You know task forces are bullshit. They obstruct the sharing of information. The feds always show up and you know what happens when we invite the big feet from the Eye into our tent. They end up running the show.”

  “Shane, in the long run, it’s not going to be my call. It’s Tony’s.”

  “You’re the head of the Detective Bureau. I’ve seen you go up against Tony and win. Don’t hide behind him.”

  “He’s the one the press is gonna skin, not me. If we set up a task force, it gives the news people something to write about. It looks proactive. While we’re setting it up and getting it organized, it buys a week.”

  “And in the meantime, the case gets trashed.”

  “Then solve the thing, Shane.You’ve been on it for almost two months. Solve it and take us both out of this jackpot.”

  It was heating up. Our voices were rising in the cold night air, floating across the Venice canals. Our neighbors were probably rolling over in bed and muttering, “Those damn Scullys are at it again.”

  “Even Cal doesn’t want you to form a task force. He says it’s gonna bitch up the investigation.”

  “So I’m hiding behind Tony and you’re hiding behind Cal.”

  “I’m not hiding behind anybody, because I completely agree. We can solve it ourselves.”

  “Okay. Then as long as we’re on the subject of solving the case, maybe we ought to review it from an operational standpoint.”

  “Operational?” I was lost. “Okay, what’s wrong operationally?”

  “I’m hearing rumors that your partner is a problem.”

  “Look, Alexa, my partner is my business.”

  “You’re sitting here giving me grief about setting up a task force while you’re investigating the biggest case we’ve had in ten years with a fall-down drunk. Maybe that’s why we’re not getting anywhere.”

  “Too many lies and loose bullshit gets passed around your floor at Parker Center,” I shot back. “My partner’s problems are his and mine. We’ll deal with it.”

  “Okay, then just look me in the eye and tell me he’s not fucking up.”

  She was angry. But she was also right and she was under a lot of pressure from Tony. She had recommended me for this case and after seven weeks I was nowhere. Since my position on Zack was untenable, I did what most outflanked husbands do. I got pissed off.

  “People go through tough periods,” I almost shouted. “God knows I did, and Zack was the one who…”

  “I don’t want to hear about how Zack saved you back in the day! I’m talking about now. Four men are dead and if this fourth John Doe is a copycat, then the only clues we have on this damn serial murder case in seven weeks just evaporated.” She threw her empty beer into the trash can next to the barbeque. “So tell me, Shane, is this guy the problem?”

  “No, dammit! He’s not the problem. You’re the problem! You and all the other backstabbers at Parker Center.”

  I got up and stalked into the house, immediately feeling like a total ass. She wasn’t the problem. Zack was. And I was, for protecting him.

  I went into the den, picked up the murder book and angrily flipped it open. Proving Alexa’s point, the binder was a complete mess. Things were filed wrong. The initial victim, whom I had named Woody after finding him in the wash at the Woodman Avenue overpass, had one of John Doe Number Three’s crime scene photos pasted in his section by mistake. The section on John Doe Number Three, dubbed Cole for Colfax Avenue, was also a mess. Alexa and Cal were right. Zack was just going through the motions. He didn’t give a damn. In fact, he was screwing up evidence.

  I sat in the den and worked for almost two hours, reorganizing and bringing the murder book up to date. Some of it I had to do from memory because the transcriptions of our original crime scene audio tapes were missing. Fortunately, I’d held on to the cassettes. If Zack couldn’t produce the transcripts, I’d have to get them redone. When I finished, I thought it was about 90 percent accurate. There was still paperwork missing that I’d have to look for in the morning.

  I closed the book and went down the hall to our bedroom. Alexa was already in bed. I took off my clothes and lay down beside her. It was dark, but I knew she was awake.

  After a long moment, she spoke softly. “I’ll do the best I can to hold off the task force. And I’ll leave Zack up to you unless it becomes impossible.”

  What more could I ask?

  Then she rolled over and took me into her arms. “Because I know a man with good work ethics and a sense of the team is going to take care of business.” Using Pete Carroll’s words.

  What do you say to a woman like that?

  I guess you say, I’m sorry, I was wrong. So after a short internal struggle, that’s what I did.

  I lay in the warmth of my wife’s arms and thought about that. Pete Carroll said you win by depending on your teammates. But how could I depend on Zack?

  Before I fell asleep, I remembered Cindy’s translation of the old Cyrillic warning.

  Don’t wake up, the tattoos cautioned.

  9

  It poured down rain during the night. I heard it hitting the roof of our house around 3 A.M., banging loudly in the downspouts. By morning the storm had passed and L.A. was reborn and washed clean. The air had a brisk crispness, all too rare in this city of fumes.

  As I drove from Venice across town to the Glass House, I decided to take a detour and stop by the city forensic facility on Ramirez Street. The crime lab is a very busy place, and even though I was working a red ball that should be afforded top priority, sometimes people make strange choices. One of my jobs as primary investigator was to make sure my Fingertip murder got the proper attention. Sometimes, by just showing up with a box of Krispy Kremes, you can work wonders.

  I stopped at a mini-market just before getting on the I-10 freeway and bought two dozen, then drove up the ramp and joined a long line of angry freeway commuters who were bumper-to-bumpering their way to work. My lane mates were holding their steering wheels in death grips, their faces scowling masks of anger. The frustration all of us accumulated on the 10 would be dutifully passed along to our coworkers, who would take it out on their subordinates. This domino effect of bad traffic karma would kill working environments all over town until noon.

  I inched along past Wilshire Boulevard, and tried to stifle my frustration by running through a list of more pressing problems. Alexa, Cal, and Tony didn’t want Forrest to be a copycat because that body gave everyone hope. The department could slip into wait-and-see mode and pray Zack and I would turn something. But since I was pretty sure Forrest was not part of the Fingertip case, it was just a head feint for the press. Eventually, we’d have to own up to that fact, and when we did, we’d undoubtedly get a task force, including a contingent from the FBI. The feebs like to bill themselves as experts in serial crime. After all, they have an Academy Award–winning movie starring Anthony Hopkins and Jodie Foster to prove it.

  All of this made me hate the driver of the blue Corvette in front of me. These assholes in my lane didn’t know who they were dealing with. I was p
issed off and I was packing.

  At 9:40 I finally made it to Ramirez Street and parked in the underground garage at the municipal crime lab. I took the elevator to the third floor and asked the girl on the desk if either Cindy Clark or Mike Menninger were in. A minute later Cindy came out. She was a sweet-faced, slightly round girl with the thick Texas accent I remembered. She smiled and looked down at the box of donuts I held out to her, selecting one carefully.

  “Y’all really know how to tempt a girl.”

  “If that’s all it takes, then I’ve been wasting a lot of money on jewelry and concert tickets,” I joked.

  “What can I do for you, Detective?”

  “I was wondering if we’re getting anywhere on my contact lens.”

  “I was just fixin’ t’check with Brandon on that. Come on.”

  I followed her down a narrow corridor lined with tiny rooms that were the approximate size of walk-in closets. Each one contained a computer, a desk, and a geek. We entered a slightly larger room at the end of the hall dominated by a very skinny, young, black guy with a receding hairline. He wore no jewelry, not even a watch, but he had on a T-shirt that said “Crime Unit” with an arrow pointing down to his shorts. We’re really going to have to do something about the quality of humor in law enforcement. Cindy made the introduction.

  “Brandon Washington, Detective Shane Scully. Shane has HM twenty-eight oh-five.”

  “Grab a seat,” Brandon said. “Lemme check my e-mails on that lens.” When he smiled I saw that his two front teeth were box-outlined in gold. Not my favorite look, but hey, guys do what they think will get them laid in this town. He turned on his computer, and brought up his e-mail.