Infidel

by Steve Gannon

  “Don’t worry, I’ll behave,” Allison promised, hanging up before I could change my mind.

  As I thumbed off my phone, I noticed a throng of mobile news vans jamming the street a block farther on. Several reporters were outside doing standups in front of a huge mansion, probably enumerating all the things they didn’t know and hadn’t learned since yesterday. Others had gathered on a sidewalk across the street and were conversing with neighbors. Deciding I no longer needed to verify the crime-scene address, I parked my Suburban and walked the remaining distance to the Welches’ estate, hoping to avoid talking with anyone on the way. Moments later, I saw that was not to be.

  “Detective Kane!” called one of the reporters “Can you give us a statement?”

  “Not right now, Sue,” I said, recognizing the woman from a case I’d worked years earlier.

  Although seeming surprised that I remembered her name, Sue thrust a microphone in my direction anyway, quickly being joined by other newspersons as well. “Do you have any leads so far?” Sue persisted.

  “Is this the work of a terrorist group?” someone else shouted. “Why aren’t the police doing anything?”

  “Have there been any further developments on the case?” another chimed in.

  “No comment,” I said, deciding that my best course lay in getting to the other side of a pedestrian gate that flanked a wrought-iron driveway barrier, and doing so as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, the gate was locked. Regarding me with a frosty expression, a slim young woman wearing slacks, a matching jacket, and a cream-colored blouse stood on the other side. Beneath the left shoulder of her jacket, I noticed the bulge of a service weapon.

  “FBI?” I said, sizing her up as a low-level agent who had been left to secure the scene.

  The woman, who appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties, nodded without changing expression. She was taller than I had first thought, and a lot more attractive, too.

  “A fed, huh?” I continued. “So where are your dark sunglasses?”

  “Funny,” she said, her tone saying she thought otherwise.

  I flipped out my shield, deciding to dispense with the pleasantries. “Detective Kane, LAPD. Open up.”

  After inspecting my credentials, the woman shook her head, her short blond hair moving in a silky wave, framing a startlingly lovely face. “Someone mentioned there might be an LAPD hotshot showing up,” she said. “This is no longer a police investigation, Detective. Sorry.”

  “You’re not going to let me in?”

  “No.”

  “Really?’

  “Really. Take a hike.”

  With a sigh, I pulled out my cellphone. “Fine,” I said. “Gimme a second.”

  The woman regarded me coolly, lifting her shoulders in a casual shrug. “Whatever. But you’re not coming in.”

  Continuing to ignore a barrage of questions from reporters, I stepped away from the gate. I started to dial Lieutenant Long in West L.A., normal protocol in a situation like that—work your way up the chain of command and so on—then changed my mind. Deciding to go right to the top, I fished Chief Ingram’s card from my pocket and dialed the number written on the back. After a short conversation, I repocketed my phone and waited.

  I didn’t have long to wait. Within minutes the blond woman received a phone call of her own. Turning her back, she withdrew a cellphone from a small handbag slung over her shoulder. Though she lowered her voice, I have excellent hearing, and I could easily make out her end of the conversation.

  “Yes, sir,” I heard her say. “There is someone here named Kane—”

  A pause followed, during which she glanced in my direction. “Yes, sir, but—” Another pause. Then, “I apologize, sir. Of course, sir,” she said, her face coloring. “Right away, sir.”

  She seemed about to say something more, probably followed by another “sir,” but by then her cellphone connection had apparently been severed. Without speaking, she jammed the phone back into her purse, walked to the pedestrian gate, and flung it open.

  Ducking under a ribbon of crime-scene tape, I stepped through and closed the gate behind me, relieved to be escaping the gaggle of reporters. “So,” I said, extending my hand. “Want to start over? Daniel Kane, LAPD hotshot.”

  The woman hesitated, her blue eyes appraising me critically. Then, seeming to come to a decision, she took my hand. “Special Agent Sara Taylor,” she said, her grasp surprisingly firm. “Sorry, Detective. Just doing my job.”

  “No offense taken, Taylor,” I replied. Then, starting up a paver driveway toward the Welches’ mansion, “And I’m just doing mine.”

  “Uh, what is that, exactly?” Taylor asked, hurrying to catch up.

  “LAPD/Bureau liaison. I’m supposed to take a look at the crime scene,” I answered, deciding not to mention that I hadn’t officially accepted the position.

  “We sealed the residence. You’re not going inside?”

  “I am. Don’t worry, Taylor. I’ve done this a few times. I promise not to screw anything up.”

  “I’m supposed to accompany you.”

  “No problem. Let’s take a quick tour of the grounds first. Is there any other way in or out of here besides that gate at the street?”

  Taylor shook her head. “Not without climbing the hedges and fencing surrounding the property. There was no sign of anyone entering that way, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  “So the killer or killers probably drove in,” I said, taking a look at the perimeter hedge. Although it provided privacy from the street, I also could make out a spine of spiked fencing concealed within the greenery. “I noticed a camera and intercom by the gate. If they came through that way, they either had the gate code, or someone buzzed them in.”

  “Right. Your LAPD task force is currently canvassing neighbors, maid services, and anyone else with the gate code,” Taylor volunteered, anticipating my next question.

  “Good,” I said, making a mental note to talk with Deluca about that.

  Next, with Agent Taylor close behind, I made a circuit of the property, satisfying myself that there was no sign of anyone scaling the hedge. After glancing into a three-car garage fronting the driveway, I circumnavigated the exterior of the house, checking for broken windows, scuff marks, jimmied locks, and so on—finding no sign of forced entry there, either. It seemed that whoever had murdered the Welches had been invited in.

  As I crossed a terrace near the rear of the house, I noticed a dark patch of stains on the terracotta tiles beside the Welches’ pool. Kneeling, I looked closer. The stains appeared to be oil drips, and they looked fresh. There was no indication—numbered evidence tabs or the like—that the drips had been included in evidence gathered by crime-scene technicians.

  After taking several pictures with my iPhone camera, I proceeded to the front of the house. On the way, in a shrubbery planter and on a nearby section of lawn, I could just make out what appeared to be tire tracks.

  After taking additional pictures, I turned to Agent Taylor, who during this time had been following me with an air of ill-disguised impatience. “Can you open the garage?” I asked.

  “Why?”

  “Just do it, Taylor. I need to check something.”

  Taylor seemed about to argue the point, then changed her mind. Stepping away, she withdrew her phone and dialed a number. After a short conversation, she scribbled something in a notebook.

  “Garage door code,” she explained, noting my questioning look.

  After Taylor had opened one of the garage doors using an exterior keypad, I pulled a pair of latex gloves from my jacket, snapped them on, and stepped into the garage. Three cars were present. Two appeared new—a Mercedes-Benz S-Class and a Porsche Spyder convertible. The third was a late-model Cadillac Escalade. Kneeling, I checked the concrete beneath the engines and drive trains of each vehicle. None leaked oil.

  “What are you looking for?” asked Taylor.

  I withdrew my phone. “I have to check something,”
I answered, deflecting her question. Turning my back, I crossed to a bank of storage cabinets and punched in Deluca’s cell number.

  “Dan,” he said, answering almost immediately. “What’s up?”

  “Just need a little clarification, Paul. You said Snead showed up at the Bel Air crime scene shortly after you did. How shortly?”

  “You’re asking how far Banowski and I got in processing things before Robbery-Homicide took over?

  “Right.”

  “Not far. Snead and two of his HSS detectives, Church and Nolan, relieved us before we had a chance to do much.”

  “Who was the criminalist on the case?” I asked, referring to the Special Investigative Division officer who, at the direction of the ranking homicide investigator at the scene—most likely Snead—had been responsible for the procurement and cataloging of trace evidence.

  “Frank Tremmel.”

  “And the coroner’s investigator?”

  “Art Walters.”

  “Good,” I said. I had investigated cases with both men, and I knew their work was solid.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m here at the Welches’ estate,” I explained. “I noticed what look like fresh oil drips on the terrace near the pool. Anyone take samples?”

  “There was no mention of that in the crime report. Did we miss something?”

  “I’m not sure. It could be nothing, but none of Welches’ vehicles leak oil. The drips might have come from a gardener’s lawnmower or whatever, but I also noticed what appear to be tire tracks leading back to the terrace. The tracks seem too wide for a lawnmower, and it’s unlikely the family would park a car on their back patio.”

  “You think the killers might have concealed their vehicle back there?”

  “Maybe. They had to be in the house for some time murdering Mr. and Mrs. Welch and shooting a video and whatever the hell else they did. Probably took a while, right?”

  “Yeah,” Deluca agreed. “Damn. The FBI didn’t pick up the drips or the tire tracks, either.”

  “You might want to send SID back out,” I suggested. “Have them sample the drips. Maybe even remove the pavers and take them back to the lab. Might come in handy if we locate the murder vehicle. Also get casts of the tire tracks, along with oil samples and reference tire prints from the Welches’ vehicles to rule them out as a source.”

  “I’ll talk with Snead. Did you, uh, notice anything else?”

  “I haven’t finished here yet, but I’ll call if I do.” As I hung up, I noticed Taylor standing behind me listening.

  “We’ll be sending our ERT unit back out, too,” she informed me stiffly, referring to the Bureau’s Evidence Response Team.

  “Of course,” I said, heading for the front of the house. “It’s your case, right?”

  “Right.”

  When we reached the front of the mansion, I found several strips of yellow crime-scene ribbon blocking the entry door. After mounting a short flight of steps, I used a keychain penknife to cut the tape. “The door unlocked?” I asked, glancing at Taylor.

  Taylor nodded. “The house was open when investigators arrived. We left it that way.”

  “Fine,” I said, placing a gloved hand on the doorknob. I hesitated a moment. Then, taking a deep breath, I opened the door and crossed the threshold.

  Taylor followed me in. We paused in a spacious entry, the large, airy space illuminated by an ornate chandelier and bank of clerestory windows higher up. Dark stains marked the slate floor just inside the door, the treads of several different shoeprints suggesting that there had been more than one intruder. A gigantic living room lay to the left; a hallway led deeper into the house to the right. Straight ahead, a curved staircase ascended to the second floor. I glanced into the living room, struck by the smell of something rotting. Taylor wrinkled her nose, apparently noticing it, too.

  “Have you been in here?” I asked, surmising that although the Welches’ bodies had been removed by coroner’s investigators, the blood cleanup had been left for later. Like a corpse, blood left in a warm, closed environment quickly decays. Like the odor of a decomposing body, it’s something you don’t soon forget.

  Taylor shook her head. “Inside the house? No.”

  I could tell Taylor was fighting not to show a reaction to the smell. She was almost succeeding.

  Over the years I had grown accustomed to the smell of putrefaction, at least accustomed enough to perform my job, but more than once I had seen others lose their lunch at a homicide investigation, adding the nauseating smell of vomit to the crime scene.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “I’m fine,” Taylor replied. “What, uh, what do you want to see?”

  “Everything,” I answered. I glanced to the left, concluding from the smell of death emanating from the living room that the murders had taken place there. Deciding to leave that area for last, I headed upstairs. “First I want to get a feel for what happened,” I added. “You coming?”

  “Yeah, I’m coming.”

  Accompanied by Agent Taylor, I spent the next twenty minutes inspecting the second floor of the mansion. Turning off my feelings, I concentrated on forensic aspects of the case, noting traps missing from bathroom sinks, shower drains opened, computer leads dangling from an office workstation, numbered tags and stickers designating the location of evidence taken from various places, and a patina of ferric oxide fingerprint powder coating any surface the killers might have touched—especially the smashed paneling of a bathroom door that had apparently been ripped from its frame.

  Deciding investigators had done a thorough job of gathering evidence on the upper floor, I descended to the main level of the house. In the kitchen I noted knives missing from a cutting block, a landline phone off the hook, more fingerprint powder and an additional littering of numbered evidence tags, and a second computer missing from a kitchen alcove. A formal dining room, several guest bedrooms, and a number of other areas on the ground floor appeared to have received similar treatment by investigators.

  Finally I returned to the living room, having saved the worst for last. Taylor, who until then had trailed several steps behind me, moved a little closer as we entered the room in which the Welches had died. The smell worsened, apparently emanating from a puddle of congealed fluid that had soaked into the carpet. By then I had grown progressively inured to the stench. Fortunately, it seemed Taylor had as well.

  Glancing around, I noted more tags and stickers designating areas where fluid, fiber, and other forensic evidence had been gathered. Delineated in white tape, the shapes of two bodies had been outlined, the side-by-side torsos partly immersed in the blood puddle.

  Looking closer, I noted what appeared to be several indentations in the carpet. Because a murder video had been shot, I surmised that the marks might have been made by a camera tripod. Both disgusted and angered that the killers had brought a camera to record their act, I noticed something even more chilling. On an adjacent wall, written in a smear of blood, someone had scrawled what looked like an Arabic word.

  “Infidel,” said Taylor, noticing my gaze.

  I stared at the writing, the bloody loops and whorls seeming almost alien on the white plaster wall. “What?”

  “We had an expert take a look. It’s the Arabic word kafir, meaning infidel, or unbeliever,” Taylor explained. “We didn’t release that detail to the press. Unfortunately, along with their list of demands in the murder video, the killers included a close-up of the bloody writing. So now . . .”

  “. . . it’s worthless as a means of weeding out phony confessions,” I concluded. In well publicized crimes, authorities were often swamped with confessions from misguided persons looking for their fifteen minutes of fame, and withholding a descriptor like the bloody writing often proved invaluable as a means of elimination.

  Again using my cellphone, I took several pictures of the Arabic writing.

  “What now?” asked Taylor, shifting impatiently from foot to foot. “You about done?”<
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  Instead of answering, I began mentally reviewing the investigative elements I’d covered so far, making certain I hadn’t overlooked something, and pausing on details that didn’t make sense.

  For starters, considering the camera equipment and whatever else the killers had brought with them, the intruders had most likely driven into the estate. They had therefore either known the Welshes’ gate code, or the Welshes had buzzed them in. And if the latter were the case, why?

  Second, the smashed door upstairs indicated that someone—either Mr. or Mrs. Welsh, or possibly both—had taken refuge in the bathroom before eventually being captured. Whatever the case, it must have taken the killers time to break through the heavy door. Why hadn’t a 911 call been made in the interim? The kitchen phone off the hook could explain why a landline call hadn’t been placed, but everyone has a cellphone. Had the Welshes been surprised by the attack and unable to get to their phones?

  I was also curious regarding what sort of killer or killers would bring video equipment to a murder. True, it showed a callous premeditation, but what would motivate posting a video of their act? Was it simply a threat—submit to our demands or further killings will follow—or was there more involved?

  I sighed, realizing that although investigators and crime-scene technicians appeared to have done a workmanlike job gathering evidence, it was unlikely that any of it would lead to an arrest. Despite what is shown on TV, forensic evidence rarely solves crimes; it simply comes in handy once you have a suspect. And for that, I knew that the first line of inquiry would be based on the premise that the killers had known the Welshes, at least peripherally. Aside from a close scrutiny of family and friends, the most common way to obtain a suspect or suspects would be via an informant, or as the result of a confession that could be corroborated by physical evidence, and somehow I didn’t think either would be forthcoming.

  As I was last to arrive on the scene and the bodies had already been removed, I also knew I was getting a skewed version of the crime. Nevertheless, I felt a renewed surge of anger, recalling the murder of my wife at the hands of another killer. Of one thing I was certain: Whoever had butchered the Welshes didn’t deserve to be breathing the same air as the rest of us.