The first thing she did was pull out her phone and take a bunch of photographs. She wanted to document the scene but she was careful not to take a single step farther into her condo and contaminate the scene. That task took maybe fifteen seconds.
Eve called 911. She identified herself as a homicide detective with the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department, Lost Hills station, and gave the operator her home address. “A man has just shot himself in the head in my kitchen. I need paramedics, backup, and a supervisor immediately.”
The operator wanted her to stay on the line, but Eve declined, saying that she needed to secure the scene and make other notifications. The nearest fire station was at Parkway Calabasas and Calabasas Road, one mile east of her. They would be here in two, maybe three, minutes. That didn’t give her much time. Her next call was to Duncan.
“How did the press conference go?” he asked.
“I came home and Brad Pruitt was in my kitchen. He blew his brains out in front of me. I need you here.”
“Jesus. Are you okay?”
“I’m dandy.” She could already hear the sirens approaching.
“Don’t touch anything. Secure the scene. Call the captain. Think before you speak.”
“I will.”
She disconnected, but before she could call Moffett, he called her.
“The emergency call just came in,” Moffett said. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who is the victim?”
“Brad Pruitt. The deputy who pulled over Sabrina Morton. He broke into my house and shot himself in the head.”
“Shit. The press is still here. I don’t think they are aware of what has happened. Don’t say a word to any of them if they show up. Secure the scene. I’ll be there in two minutes.”
Eve ended the call and walked outside as the fire engine and the paramedic unit rolled up in front of her building.
“You went to Pruitt’s house on Saturday morning?” Lansing said, angry and incredulous, as he paced in front of Eve, Duncan, and Burnside, who were all gathered again in Moffett’s office. “You actually confronted him in front of his family?”
It was nearly midnight. Eve had already given a formal statement to the captain, who’d been the first officer on the scene, and had been interviewed for hours by the Officer-Involved Shooting Team, even though her weapon was not drawn or discharged in the encounter.
“I wanted to apply pressure,” Eve said. “My intention was to convince him that there was still time to align himself with the good guys instead of three rapist deputies. I went to his house because I wanted to put him on the spot, to force him to think about what the consequences would be for his family, for his relationship with his wife and son, if he made the wrong choice.”
“Congratulations,” Lansing said. “You succeeded.”
Moffett looked at Duncan. “Did you know Eve was going to talk to Pruitt at his home?”
The question put Duncan in a terrible position. Before he could answer, Eve said: “No, he didn’t. I didn’t talk to anybody about it first.”
Burnside said, “Or afterwards, either. Why didn’t you tell us that you’d threatened Pruitt?”
“I didn’t threaten him, I applied pressure. If he could tell us that he warned Towler, Harding, or Frankel that Sabrina was showing the tattoo drawing around, it would have established that they knew she was close to discovering that her rapists were deputies. It would have proved that they had a strong, urgent motive for killing her.”
She did it because Duncan had warned her that the DNA wouldn’t be enough to make the murder case. She did it because she was afraid her case would collapse without the additional information. She did it without thinking of the possible negative consequences. But even if she had, Pruitt’s suicide would never have occurred to her.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Burnside said. “Why didn’t you tell any of us that you’d confronted him at home?”
“It slipped my mind.”
Burnside shook her head. “I don’t buy it, Eve. You knew it was wrong, so you kept it to yourself, hoping it would all work out in the end. You gambled but this time it didn’t pay off.”
Maybe it was a gamble, she thought, but it wasn’t something she was ashamed of, nor did she consciously decide not to tell anyone about it before she went or after she did it.
“I forgot to tell you, but I wasn’t hiding what I did. It’s all in writing in the case file. I reported the entire interview. Take a look now if you don’t believe me. It’s all there.”
“That’s called ‘covering your ass,’” Lansing said. “It doesn’t make what you did any less irresponsible.”
Moffett said, “It was stupid to confront him at that point in the investigation. If you’d asked Duncan or any of us, that’s what we would have told you. Because we have experience that you don’t. It was a rookie mistake.”
Duncan sighed, rolling his hand in front of him, indicating it was time to move things along. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, big deal.”
Moffett stared at him, clearly pissed. “What did you say?”
“That’s what rookies do, Captain. They make mistakes. But I’ve got news for you, so do old goats like us, even with all of our experience. We almost made a big one six weeks ago, remember? But the rookie here saved our asses, and a child’s life. So let’s put this in perspective. Let’s look at what Eve got right here, which is that three deputies raped and murdered a woman. Pruitt killed himself because the coward was complicit in those crimes and ashamed of it. Fuck him.”
Everyone was silent for a long moment. Eve was glad she’d called Duncan and that he was here as her advocate. She obviously needed one.
Lansing spoke first, directing his attention to Eve.
“You made a mistake, but you didn’t break any rules or procedures nor did you do anything to directly precipitate what happened tonight. I don’t see any grounds at this time for disciplinary action.”
Of course he doesn’t, Eve thought. It would send the wrong message to the public, especially after he’d just presented her as a hero. It would also call into question the integrity of the Morton case. Yet, at the same time, in front of the four of them, he was also covering his ass by saying “at this time,” in case forensics showed that she’d staged the suicide in some way and murdered Pruitt.
“Thank you, sir.”
“I’m also not going to place you on administrative leave, unless you want it.”
“Why would I?”
Duncan gave her a look. “How about because you just saw a man kill himself in your kitchen. You should take some time off to deal with that.”
“I feel fine.”
“It’s too soon to know how you feel, Eve. You may still be in shock.”
“What I feel is tired, and pissed off that now we might never know how Pruitt heard about what Sabrina was doing or if he’d told any of the deputies about it.”
Moffett said, “We’ve got psychological counseling available if you need it, now or down the road. There’s no shame in that. I’ve used it myself and it helps.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“If you decide tomorrow, or next week, or next month that you need time off to get a grip on this, that’s okay, too. Take the time.”
“Will do, sir.”
Lansing paced in front of her. “The press is going to be all over this. Avoid them if you can and don’t say a word if you get cornered. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You can’t go back to your house tonight. Do you have everything you need and somewhere to stay?”
“Yeah, I’m good.” She’d driven to the station in her Subaru Outback, and always kept a go-bag in the trunk with two days of clothes, several pairs of shoes, and some toiletries for stakeouts and emergencies. She also had a crime scene kit (including a Tyvek suit and work boots), an earthquake preparedness kit (which included first aid and tool kits), a case of bottled water, and a box of granola b
ars.
“Okay, then we’re done for tonight.” Lansing wagged a finger at Eve. “Get some rest and don’t feel you have to rush in here tomorrow.”
Duncan got up, his knees cracking. “I sure as hell won’t and nobody splattered their brains all over my house tonight.”
Eve drove east to the Hilton Garden Inn. It was located in an office park adjacent to the Commons and was the nicest of the three hotels in Calabasas.
She hung the DO NOT DISTURB placard on her doorknob as soon as she opened the door, then closed and locked it. She tossed her go-bag on the bed, turned off her iPhone, stripped off her clothes, and took a shower.
The water was scalding hot, but still not hot enough. She furiously scrubbed herself down with the tiny bar of shower soap, as if she could wash off everything that had happened that night. The soap disintegrated too soon, so she used the hand soap at the sink and the two bottles of shampoo, too. Even then, she still felt dirty.
So she just sat under the water and cried. Not for Pruitt. Not for herself. But for the pregnant wife she’d made a widow and for the little Batman who’d grow up blaming Eve for killing his father.
This is on you.
That was what Pruitt wanted her to believe. But was it true?
Maybe she did push him too hard. Maybe she shouldn’t have used his family to pressure him. Maybe he would have killed himself no matter where or how she’d confronted him.
She’d never know. But regardless, she knew she’d spend the rest of her life trying to bury the memory of him looking her in the eye as he blew his brains out.
This is on you.
At about 1:30 a.m., she got into bed in a T-shirt and underwear and placed her gun within reach on her nightstand. There were a lot of Great White deputies out there and she didn’t know how they might react to the arrests or the suicide.
“Sweet dreams,” she said to herself and went to sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Eve woke up at noon on Wednesday, her mouth dry, her muscles stiff. She’d slept over twelve hours but didn’t feel the least bit refreshed. She took another shower, but it was technically just a rinse, since there was no soap left to use.
Afterward, she got dressed and stuffed the clothes she wore the previous day into the tiny trash can. The clothes reeked of death to her and she didn’t believe that could ever be washed out.
She holstered her gun and turned on her phone. A ton of text alerts and call notifications instantly appeared from her mom, Lisa, Kenny, Duncan, Burnside, Daniel Brooks, Mitch Sawyer, Josie Wallace, talent agent Linwood Taggert, TV reporter Kate Darrow, LA Times reporter Pete Sanchez, Acorn reporter Scott Peck, Malibu Beat blogger Zena Faust, and journalists from every newspaper, television station, and media outlet in Southern California. She muted her phone because she knew the calls and texts would only keep coming.
The hotel’s breakfast buffet closed at 10:00 a.m., so she thought about walking over to the Commons for lunch, but she was worried that she’d run into a bunch of reporters hanging out there, waiting for some news to break at Lost Hills station on the arrest and suicide stories. So she decided to drive to the Habit, a hamburger stand in Woodland Hills. But she had to scrap that plan, too, when she got to her car, which was parked behind the building.
Her Subaru Outback was stuffed with hundreds of full “poo bags,” the distinctive plastic baggies for dog crap that were dispensed for free around Calabasas Lake and De Anza Park. The words TRAITOR BITCH were spray-painted in yellow on the side of her car.
Fuck you, she thought.
She wasn’t a traitor to the badge. The deputies who did this were. They forgot that their sworn duty was to protect the public, not the rapists and murderers within their own ranks.
If the deputies thought this warning would scare her off, or shut her down, they didn’t understand her at all. It had the opposite effect. It motivated her. It reinforced that what she was doing wasn’t just the right thing, it was her responsibility.
She almost wanted to thank them for this, for dramatically shifting her attention away from Pruitt’s suicide and stoking her sense of purpose.
She had a job to do . . . and she was going to do it.
Eve went back into the hotel, flashed her badge at the desk clerk, and politely asked to see the previous night’s security camera footage of the rear parking lot. The frazzled clerk, a young man in his twenties, immediately complied, taking her to a back office and sitting himself down in front of a computer monitor. She had him fast-forward through the footage, starting at her arrival around one o’clock. They didn’t have to wait long to see the crime.
At 3:47 a.m., a black panel van with no license plates pulled up beside her car. Four men wearing ski masks jumped out of the van with bulging trash bags. Three of the men quickly jimmied open her doors with the metal wedge tools commonly stocked in LASD patrol cars and emptied the hundreds of poo bags inside her Subaru while another man spray-painted the epithet on her car. Then all four of them unzipped their pants and urinated into her car before closing the doors, jumping back in the van, and driving off. The entire incident took less than five minutes.
“How horrible,” the clerk said. “Do you know which guest owns that car?”
“Me.”
“I’m so sorry. Of course, there’s no charge for last night’s stay and, if you are a Hilton Honors member, I would like to give you four thousand bonus points.”
“That’s very nice of you,” Eve said. “But it’s not necessary. Could you please email me a copy of the footage?”
She wrote her email address on the back of her LASD business card and gave it to him, along with her car keys.
“I’ll be sending someone later to take care of the car,” she said, though she had no idea who that someone might be or when it would happen. “You can give them the keys.”
“I mean no offense,” the clerk said, “but would you mind if we put a sheet or a tarp over your vehicle in the meantime?”
Eve could see how having a car parked in the hotel lot that was full of dog shit and painted with the words TRAITOR BITCH might not be good for business.
“Of course,” she said.
Eve went outside and called Duncan.
“How would you like to take me to lunch?”
Duncan was furious when he arrived in a plain-wrap Explorer at the Hilton Garden Inn and saw what the masked deputies had done to her car. He demanded that she file a police report.
“I’m not going to do that,” she said. “With my luck, the deputy that comes will be one of the assholes who did this or, at the very least, someone who sympathizes with them.”
“Fair point, but you’re going to need the police report to make a claim with your insurance company.”
“Fine, you take my report.”
“All right, but I’m not going to let this stand. You need to tell the captain about this.”
“What is he going to do about it?”
“He can tell the deputies that he won’t tolerate you being harassed and that whoever vandalized your car will be held accountable.”
“Duncan, how do we know they were Lost Hills deputies? Those four guys could have been any of the ten thousand deputies working for the LASD.”
“Then go to Lansing.”
“I’m not going to run crying to the sheriff,” Eve said. “Take my damn report and let’s go eat.”
She emailed Duncan the security camera footage while he asked her a few questions. He took photos of her car and promised to email her a copy of his report by the end of the day so she could send it to her insurance agent.
With that done, Duncan drove her to the Great China Express, a Chinese takeout in Canoga Park that was in a shopping center space formerly occupied by a Louisiana Famous Fried Chicken franchise. Remarkably, the Chinese restaurant continued serving the “real Cajun kickin’ chicken” along with their Mandarin dishes.
“Fried chicken and sweet-and-sour pork together. The only thing that could possibly
make this place any better is if they served pizza and donuts, too,” Duncan said as they ate at one of the four tables in the place. “This is good eatin’.”
Eve didn’t realize until the food was in front of her that she was starving. It made sense, though, since she’d skipped dinner. She ate three pieces of chicken and a combination plate of pork fried rice, broccoli shrimp, and pork chow mein, and still felt hungry afterward. “It’s delicious, but this might just kill me.”
“Yeah, but what a way to go.”
Her phone vibrated and so did Duncan’s, so this time she didn’t ignore her phone and looked at the screen. They’d received a joint text from Nan that the CSU was releasing Eve’s condo and would leave the keys with the captain. She also passed along the name and contact information of a local crime scene cleaner.
“That was thoughtful,” Eve said.
“You’re going to keep living in the place?”
“I’m not going to move out of my home just because somebody broke in and killed himself there.”
“It sounds like a damn good reason to me, in my top six with radioactivity, lead paint, asbestos contamination, built on a toxic waste dump, and formerly used as a meth lab. Besides, you’re renting. Leaving would be easy. Just move to another unit in the same complex, assuming the landlord would rent to you after this.”
“It would send the wrong message.”
“To whom? Are you afraid it’s going to encourage people to break into houses and shoot themselves to drive out tenants?”
“That I can be intimidated. That I can be driven away.”
“Nobody is keeping score, Eve.”
“I am,” she said, ignoring her phone, which hadn’t stopped vibrating since she turned it on.
“Have you given any thought to talking to a department shrink?”
“You think I’m crazy?”
“You were involved in a violent, deadly incident.”
“We’re cops, it’s bound to happen.”
“Not like this,” Duncan said. “I’m retiring in 109 days and it’s never happened to me.”
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