A Song for the Asking
Page 41
After grabbing a small camera and flashlight from the glove box, I stepped from the Suburban and hung my shield on my belt. The scene still appeared untouched, at least from the outside. A young LAPD patrol officer stood within a perimeter of a yellow crime-scene ribbon strung from adjacent properties. Across from the house, four other officers were conversing with a crowd of onlookers.
I ducked under the POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape. “Daniel Kane, homicide,” I said to the young patrol officer as I approached, deciding from the appearance of his neatly pressed uniform, spit-shined shoes, and lack of rank stripes that he was a P-I—still in his probationary “boot” year on the force. “You the first unit to arrive?”
“Yes, sir,” the boot answered, straightening a bit. “Me and my training officer.”
I glanced across the street. “One of those guys over there?”
“Yes, sir.” The youngster pointed to an older Hispanic man.
I eyed the nameplate on the boot’s chest: Morrison. After withdrawing a pen and notebook from my pocket, I made an entry. Then, ignoring Officer Morrison’s obvious nervousness, I turned my attention to the two story wood-and-brick house behind the tape, noting the mature trees and landscaping, a border of immaculately kept flower beds that spoke of weekly visits from a professional gardener, and a two car garage jutting from the main structure. A stand of eucalyptus and sycamore nearly concealed a single story neighboring home on the left; the house on the right had a “For Sale” sign posted at the sidewalk, with a small plaque hung below that read “Graysha Hunt.”
I glanced at my watch, looked at the sky, and made several another notations. Though I have a good memory, concise record keeping is part of the job, and sometimes these initial notes find their way into court.
“Okay, Morrison, ready to run it down for me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And relax. I’m not going to bite,” I said. “Not yet, anyhow,” I added, trying to loosen the kid up. “You haven’t screwed up my crime scene, have you?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. So let’s have it.”
Referring to his own notebook, Officer Morrison gave a brief summation of events leading to the discovery of the murders. An hour into their shift, he and his partner had been dispatched on a one-eighty-seven homicide call to the home of Charles and Susan Larson. Upon arriving, the officers had interviewed a neighbor waiting out front. She stated that she had planned to carpool with the Larsons and their son to a soccer match earlier that morning. When she got there, she found the front door ajar. She called into the house and looked inside, noticing what appeared to be blood on the entry tiles and the stairway to the second floor. Alarmed, she called inside again, then used her cell phone to contact the police. At that point Morrison and his partner entered the house, established that a multiple homicide had occurred, and exited, retracing their steps.
I asked Morrison to describe his route through the house, also asking whether anything had been disturbed. Satisfied, I pulled my camera from my coat and took a shot of the house. The official crime scene photos wouldn’t be available until later, and I preferred to have reference pictures available for my own use as soon as possible. Repocketing my camera, I turned back to Morrison. “Are you the one keeping the crime scene log?” I asked, referring to an official record of everyone entering the crime scene.
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, kid. If anyone ducks under that tape, I want his name, serial number, and time of arrival and departure. And I mean everybody, okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
I turned toward the entrance gate at the head of the street. “Was that gate closed when you arrived?”
Morrison nodded. “We tweaked our siren. A resident let us in.”
“Using the numerical keypad there?” I asked, remembering seeing one on my way in.
“Yes, sir.”
“Any other way in or out of this development?”
“There’s an exit gate. Opens automatically when you leave.”
I looked down the road, spotting a wrought iron barrier at the far end. I added that to my notes, then signaled to the group of officers across the street. One by one they ambled over, forming a loose semicircle around me. “You entered the house?” I asked the burly individual whom Morrison had pointed out as his partner.
The man, whose plate read “Rodriguez,” nodded.
Without referring to my notebook, I recounted verbatim Officer Morrison’s description of events following their arrival. “Anything to add?” I asked upon finishing.
Rodriguez shrugged. “Not much, except that the wife was really good looking. At least before …”
I glanced across the street. “Anybody over there see or hear anything?”
Rodriguez shook his head.
“So let’s turn up somebody who did,” I suggested. “The killer either lives in this complex, knows the gate code, or jumped the fence. If the latter’s the case, he probably parked on a side street nearby. I want the entire neighborhood canvassed. Start here and work your way out, searching for anyplace the guy might have parked if he came in from outside. One of you check for strangers in that bunch of rubberneckers over there, too. The rest split up and get moving. Somebody saw something. Find them.”
Once the other officers had departed, I rejoined Morrison behind the tape. “Call SID,” I ordered, referring to the Special Investigative Division’s crime-scene unit. “When you have an ETA from them, buzz the coroner’s office. Say I requested Art Walters, if he’s available.”
“Yes, sir.”
I glanced again at the sky. The overcast had thickened since I’d arrived, and it appeared the sun wouldn’t be breaking through anytime soon. “Have them send a sexual-assault team, too,” I added, remembering Rodriguez’s comment about the wife.
Without awaiting an answer, I crossed the lawn to a wooden gate on the left side of the house. The gate was unlocked. I opened it and followed a narrow walkway along the side, noticing the cloying smell of jasmine as I arrived in a small back yard. Passing a littering of patio furniture, a leaf-choked birdbath, and an assortment of balls, bats, and other children’s toys, I circumnavigated the exterior, examining doors and windows for any sign of forced entry. I found none.
After returning to the street, I made my way up a flagstone walkway to the front door. A bronze eagle, its wings spread majestically in flight, hung above the entry. I gazed at the silent raptor for a moment, preparing myself for what was to come. Then I withdrew a pair of latex gloves from my pocket, pulled them on, and pushed through the door, closing it behind me. Once inside I paused in the entry, letting my eyes adjust to the dimness.
Quiet. Too quiet.
To the left lay the living room, shades drawn. To the right, a hallway led deeper into the house. Directly in front, a carpeted staircase curved up to the second floor. Dark stains, some displaying a wavy pattern, marked the entry tiles and several stair treads.
Have SID check it out. Get a shoe size, maybe a make.
Using my pen, I flipped a light switch at the base of the stairs. Nothing. I tried another switch. Same result.
Power out?
On a wall nearby I noticed a security panel, its LCD screen dark.
No battery backup?
I proceeded down the hall, flashlight in hand. At the end of the hallway I entered a laundry room with a door leading to the garage. Beneath a counter piled with clothes I noticed a large wire cage, its door open, the interior empty. A rectangular sign wired to the front read “Buster.”
Retracing my steps, I glanced into a powder room, then made my way to the kitchen, sweeping my flashlight beam along the walls as I entered. Dishes lay piled by the sink, an empty pizza carton beside them. Flanking an oval table in the breakfast nook was a bulletin board covered with crayon depictions of fish, insects, and an American flag—obviously the work of a child but some surprisingly good. Magnetic fruit tacked other drawings to the refrigerator. In a small alcove beside the pa
ntry, someone had taken the phone off the hook and wrapped the receiver in dishtowels.
Crossing the room, I noted that the hands on an analog clock beside the stove had stopped on 12:37. Using my camera’s built-in flash, I took a picture of the clock, then unplugged it. As I continued my inspection, I saw that like the lights in the entry, the digital panels on the microwave and oven were out.
The remainder of the ground floor proved unremarkable: a wood-paneled den, a formal living room, and a dining room with a cut-glass chandelier above an ornate dinner table. Upon completing my circuit of the downstairs, I stopped again in the entry, considering my next move. Apparently, electricity to the house had been turned off—presumably by the killer. Not ready to start pulling drapes and opening blinds, I decided to see whether I could find the breaker panel and get the power back on. After returning to the laundry room, I opened a heavy door on the back wall and stepped into the garage.
Lacking windows, the garage proved even darker than the rest of the house. It took me a moment to find the door-opener control. I pushed the button with the tip of my pen. As expected, the door remained closed.
Playing my flashlight across the concrete floor, I approached the single car present, a Jeep Cherokee. On the bumper, between an anti-nuke slogan and a pro-choice emblem, a third sticker read “Thanks for visiting L.A. Please come back—we weren’t shooting at you.” I smiled briefly. Then, without touching the car’s surface, I leaned across and pulled a rope handle dangling from above, disengaging the door-opener motor from its track. Next I stepped to the garage door and rolled it up, squinting against a sudden flood of light from outside.
A quick search of the garage for the power panel proved fruitless, but I found something else. Fresh oil drips marked the concrete in the Larsons’ vacant parking space. Bending, I checked beneath the Jeep. I saw no sign of leaking under the engine or drive train. Stepping outside, I signaled to Morrison, who had resumed his post on the front walk.
“SID on the way?” I asked when he arrived.
Morrison nodded. “Should be here in about fifteen minutes. I also got in touch with the coroner’s office like you said. They’ll have an investigator en route within the hour.”
“Fine, kid. Now, get on the radio and check with DMV for vehicles registered to the Larsons. Have somebody ask the neighbors, too.”
Morrison glanced into the open garage. “One’s missing?”
“Maybe,” I said, noticing a white van with a roof mounted antenna pulling up to the entry gate down the street. Even at that distance I could make out the Channel Two eyeball on the side. Cursing under my breath, I headed back into the house, realizing a bad day was about to get worse.
Minutes later I found the house’s electrical panel below a coat rack in the laundry. Someone had tripped every breaker. Again using my pen, I flipped them back on. With each click I could hear some distant part of the house coming alive: the refrigerator in the kitchen, a heating fan in the garage, the startup chirps of a computer in the den.
Suddenly I froze. An eerie thumping was coming from deeper in the house.
Again.
Someone was still inside.
About the Author
STEVE GANNON is the author of A Song for the Asking, a bestselling novel originally published by Bantam. His newest thriller, Kane, was released in September, 2011. A book of short fiction titled Stepping Stones is scheduled for print early next year, and Allison, his third Kane Novel, will be released in September, 2012.
Gannon lives in Idaho, where he is the Executive Director of Sun Valley Artist Series, a nonprofit organization devoted to the promotion and encouragement of the art of classical music. He spends his time skiing, presenting an annual series of classical music performances and educational programs, and working on a new novel.
To contact Steve Gannon, purchase books, or to join his email list to receive updates on new releases, please visit his website at: www.stevegannonauthor.com
Other STEVE GANNON Books
Kane
Stepping Stones (Coming Soon)
Allison (June 2012)
Glow (2013)