“News flash. Empathy with cartoon characters does not make for good court cases.”
“It tells me there’s more to this than meets the eye.”
Carillo said nothing for quite some time, just sat there, drinking his beer. Finally, “I know I’m going to regret this… Let me look at the case.”
That was the last thing she expected. “You’re going to help me?”
“No. I’m going to look at the case. I want to see if he fits the profile. Give it to me when we go back.”
Better than nothing, she figured. “And if he doesn’t fit the profile?”
“It’d be interesting to find out why, because it doesn’t make sense. Santa Arleta PD is a good department. Too small to facilitate a cover-up of that magnitude. The suspect has the burns on his hands, from the fire being set to cover for the crime. Beyond that, I’d have to ask, who had motive to kill your father? He owned a pizza parlor, for God’s sake.”
“Maybe there was something else going on there. His old manager had ties to organized crime.”
“Like what? Money laundering?”
“Or something. And, like I said, I think he lied about his military background. This only came to light after Will McKnight’s suicide the other day.”
“Who is Will McKnight?”
“He was a friend of my father’s and Senator Gnoble’s. They were all in the army together.”
He lowered his beer to the table. “What does this have to do with Gnoble?”
“I’m not sure, unless Gnoble was somehow involved in getting McKnight’s name in front of the president for consideration as the U.S. procurement czar.”
“Wouldn’t that sort of make the big news? Some guy about to be appointed to oversee the entire federal government’s purchasing budget offs himself and it doesn’t even make the Chronicle headlines, much less every network on TV?”
“His nomination wasn’t made public yet. They wanted to do the background first to avoid delays in the appointment.”
“So either the government is finally becoming efficient, or someone knew he might not pass muster? I’m assuming the Bureau did the background?”
“Special Agent Hatcher.”
“He’s sure it’s suicide?”
“As far as I know. More importantly, McKnight left a suicide note, which I want to see, if only for the timing of it all.”
“You think it’s going to tell you something?”
“I won’t know until I see it, which is probably why Scotty made sure I was assigned to the Jane Doe case.”
Carillo, mid-sip, nearly spit his beer from his mouth. “What makes you think Scotty was involved?”
“You tell me he wasn’t, and I’ll believe it.”
He held her gaze, took a breath. “All right, he did ask. But knowing Scotty it’s got everything to do with scoring points with you later, if you do good on the case, get assigned to violent crimes, then hear who got you assigned. Grateful you hops in bed with helpful him, isn’t that how it works? I mean, why wouldn’t he want you to figure out what’s going on with your father’s case?”
“Some misguided sense of shielding me from the hurt and painful memories of it all? At least I’m hoping that’s what it is, because this was delivered in the mail, sent anonymously.” She held up the envelope, then slid out the contents, handed them to Carillo.
“And what does any of this have to do with Scotty?”
“It was something he didn’t want me to see. Why else would he show up in town the day before it arrives, then appear at my house and pluck it out of the mail, like maybe he was expecting to find it.”
“And was he?”
“He said McKnight mentioned mailing it just before he died. Hearsay via Hatcher’s interview of him over the phone. Regardless, McKnight kept apologizing for something he did to my father in the army. So if that’s why he sent the photo, it’s not making sense to me. Not only that, but McKnight left a suicide note that no one can seem to get me a copy of. I think they found something in that note that sent them scrambling, and I want to see it.”
Carillo stared at the photograph a good long time, asked her who she could identify. She pointed out her father, Gnoble, and McKnight, and he asked, “Special ops?”
“That’s what my neighbor said when he saw the picture. I was always under the belief my father was a contract civilian. A photographer.”
“That’s a standard cover, saying they do something innocuous for the government. It’d be nice to know who these other two are. Maybe that’ll tell you something. Scotty didn’t say anything about this?”
“Other than he thought it pointed to my father being involved in some blackmail scheme against McKnight, right before he tried to take it from me? No.”
“You want me to ask him about it?”
“If he went to this much trouble to keep me from looking into it, I don’t want him to know I think there’s more to it. He has too many connections, and I can picture him getting me transferred to some file room back at HQ just so he can keep tabs on me.”
“You saying you want me to lie to the guy? I’m not sure you’re ready for a big step like that, Pollyanna. That’d be going from black and white to downright murky,” he said, as the waitress arrived with a heaping plate of nachos, covered with sour cream, guacamole, chicken, and cheese. She gave them each a small plate, set out a fresh bowl of salsa, and took away the old. Carillo refilled his beer glass, eyed the foam, watched it settle, dissipate, before pinning his gaze on her. “You want this, you’re going to need to take that rule book of yours and stash it. You know how many cases wouldn’t get solved if everything was done by the book?”
“You’re not suggesting anything illegal, are you?”
Carillo gave a heavy sigh, the sort that told her he wished he hadn’t opened his mouth at all. “First thing, Pollyanna, there are rules. And then there are rules. Bend a little, break a little. You do what needs to be done without killing the case. The question is, how bad do you want this?”
She hesitated. But not for long. “So what you’re saying is that they’re sort of like principles or guidelines?”
“Exactly.”
“How is that going to get me to Houston PD to get a copy of McKnight’s alleged suicide note when it’s not even one of my cases?”
“It is now. Scotty’s got to be all hot and heavy over it for some reason, which means some crime going on somewhere. What you’re doing is following a hunch. Taking the initiative. So, first thing I’d do, when we get back to the office, you make copies of the photo and the letter McKnight sent you, tuck them away, then call Scotty and tell him you thought better of it, now that you’ve had time to calm down. You give them back to him. Next up, you give me your father’s murder investigation, so I can read up on that tonight, figure out where it all ties in. Lastly, we look for a case that’ll get you to Houston.”
“I’m not good at this whole lying thing. I don’t think I can take some case, try to pretend it’s related to something I’m working on.”
“Proficiency comes with experience,” he said, lifting his glass in a toast. “And my experience tells me you might want to thank Scotty for getting you assigned to the Jane Doe case after all.”
“Why is that?”
“There’s a lot of land in Texas. There’s gotta be a crime somewhere near there with an MO we can fit into the parameters of our Jane Doe case. And once we find one, someone’s gotta fly out, check into it. Wouldn’t be right if we didn’t investigate every lead.”
“And who better than me?”
“You catch on quick, Pollyanna.”
18
“Webster, Texas?” Dixon’s gaze swung from Sydney to Carillo, then back. “You think our UnSub might have committed a murder there?”
“I think we need to rule it out,” Sydney said, before Carillo could react on her last-second switch. That was not the case they’d agreed on, and Carillo was no doubt wondering what the hell had happened to it. “The victim was a
hooker, last seen in a bar before she was found stabbed to death.”
Dixon eyed the stats on the report that the agency in Webster had faxed to her that morning. “We’re not even talking the same MO. She was burned in a trailer fire.”
“But she was stabbed,” Carillo pointed out.
“Find something closer to home and our MO.” He held up the report, his expression dubious, and Sydney realized if she didn’t think of something fast, he was not going to approve her flight.
“The smoke,” she said, and both Dixon and Carillo looked at her, waited. “When I was doing the drawing at the hospital, Tara Brown said something about our UnSub smelling like smoke from a fire.”
“Yeah…” Carillo nodded, like he’d known this all along. “So of course we were looking for similars that might contain that element, the, uh, smoke. Timing’s good. Just a few days before Tara was kidnapped from Reno. Like maybe he committed the one, hightailed it out of state wearing the same clothes, stops off in Reno, grabs Tara, and he’s off again. We’re thinking maybe that’s what he does. Drives from state to state. At least based on our short history we have of him. Figured Fitz could fly there, check it out.”
“Have we gotten anything back from profiling yet?”
“The report should be coming in today. But Fitz ran the case by Doc Schermer, since he did a short stint in profiling. He says it looks good.”
“Seems a little far out there.”
“Unless,” Sydney said, “you take into consideration that there’s lots of places to stop between there and Reno. And we’ve got a couple other rape-murders that somewhat fit the MO on a direct route from there to here.” She dropped several reports on Dixon’s desk as well. Reports that had little or no connection other than they were unsolved.
Dixon held her gaze, as though he suspected something, but couldn’t come up with whatever that might be. He gave a pointed glance at his retirement calendar on the wall, signed the order, and laid it across the reports she had offered up as proof. “Make it a quick trip,” he said, without looking at either of them.
Carillo grabbed the reports and they left. Once out of hearing, he said, “Webster? Trailer fire? You didn’t tell me you were using that report.”
“They were a little short of dead hookers in the time frame we needed.”
“What happened to the one we decided on last night?”
She flipped open the manila folder they’d carried the other reports in. “I swear I didn’t catch it until we were walking into his office.” She pointed to the name of the victim, Dana Edwards, then the box next to it, stating the sex of the victim, where a big letter M was written.
“Dana’s a male?”
“Apparently he was into cross-dressing, which is probably what got him stabbed in the first place. My guess is whoever did the data entry made the same mistake, which is why we didn’t see it when we pulled it up on the computer.”
They stopped at Lettie’s desk, and she looked up from her computer screen, her fingers poised over the keyboard. “Well?”
“He approved it,” Sydney said.
Lettie smiled, hit a key, and a few seconds later, her printer spit out a copy, which she handed over. “Your only option going in is the redeye tonight, arriving in Houston at 6:06 a.m., but that’ll give you several more hours tomorrow to investigate… well, whatever it is you’re investigating. Your return flight is set for 3:30 p.m., arriving back here at 5:58 p.m. tomorrow night. Nonstop, so it’ll give you a little over four hours to catch a nap.”
“You’re a jewel.”
“I know. Remember it on your trip back. I like dark chocolate. In the meantime, ERT’s setting up at Golden Gate. They’re about to start dragging Stow Lake, for evidence in your Tara Brown case, and they want to know what your arrival is.”
Carillo glanced at his watch. “We’re on our way.”
Forty-five minutes later, Carillo and Sydney were standing in Golden Gate Park, at Stow Lake, the location where Tara Brown had been dumped and left for dead. The actual park was vast, more than a thousand acres. Stow Lake itself was a body of water that surrounded a small island called Strawberry Hill, accessed by a bridge for day hikes on trails that meandered through the trees and foliage. From the moment Tara was found, there had been road blockades to the entrances of Stow Lake Drive, the street that circled the water. They intended to keep this area of the park closed off to the public until the Evidence Response Team gave the thumbsup. How long that might be was anyone’s guess. During the day the lake was a popular boating, fishing, and picnic area near the De Young Museum and the Japanese Tea Garden. During the night, with the visitors gone, it was entirely possible to dump a body at the water’s edge and not be seen. Their hope was to find a piece of evidence that had somehow been overlooked, and Sydney and Carillo intended to expand the area being searched for just that purpose.
The main crime scene was located on the west side of Stow Lake, but Carillo and Sydney walked over the bridge to Strawberry Hill. Sydney took one half of the small island, while Carillo took the other.
After about an hour, finding nothing, they took a short break, returned to the parking lot, leaning against the car, eyeing the lake. Devoid of the usual day crowd, it was peaceful and postcard-perfect with the stone bridge reflecting in the calm water, turtles climbing onto rocks, even an egret standing among the graceful reeds. Nothing here gave testimony that a horrific crime had touched Stow Lake’s tranquil shores, until one caught sight of the crime scene tape and the ERT crew setting up shop in the small parking lot so they could drag the lake.
Carillo was drinking from a bottle of water he’d just opened. Sydney was sipping from a travel mug filled with now lukewarm coffee, thinking about her upcoming trip to Houston, and what could possibly be in that suicide note, when it struck her. “I can’t go.”
“What’dya mean you can’t go?”
“In five days, they’re executing Johnnie Wheeler, and what am I doing? Running off on what could be a wild-goose chase, because I don’t like it that my father has been accused of being involved in some… whatever the hell Scotty says he’s involved in. What if this suicide note is nothing? What if it makes absolutely no difference to my father’s reputation?”
“Then it makes no difference. You tried. And when you think about it, you sure as hell don’t know that looking into Johnnie Wheeler’s case will make a difference. Seems to me it’s a crapshoot either way. You just gotta pick which one means the most to you.”
“But it makes a difference to the guy sitting on death row. He’s only got five days until they execute him, and I might be his last hope. I need to deal with that first.”
“He also might be guilty. And you might not get another opportunity to get to Houston this easily.”
“But Johnnie Wheeler won’t get another opportunity at life.”
“Tell you what.” Carillo twisted the cap back on his water bottle, then tossed it into his car. “While you go to Houston, I’ll start the digging on Wheeler’s case. I read some of it after you gave it to me last night. I’ll finish it up tonight, see if I can’t locate some of the witnesses and enlist Schermer to help. He’s a whiz on the computers, digging up old data. Who knows? Maybe he’ll find something the investigators missed the first time around.”
She hesitated.
“Think of it this way,” Carillo said as they walked the circumference of Stow Lake. “With Doc Schermer and me both working on it, that’s two investigators, which is better than one. And we’ve both got a helluva lot more experience in violent crimes than you. So unless you can come up with something better than that, I’d say you’d be turning down a golden opportunity to find out what’s in that suicide note.”
And that was what she wanted, wasn’t it? But before she had a chance to think about it, she noticed some tire track depressions where the grass had been torn up, the ground showing through, still muddy from the previous rains. She took a closer look. “What are the chances this is from our susp
ect vehicle? It would fit this guy’s MO, driving close to a body of water to dump his victim.”
From the sidewalk, Carillo bent down, examined the track left in the grass. “Sort of far from where the body was dumped, when you think about it.”
She glanced over at the curb, saw a smear of black from where tires had obviously run up and over the pavement and onto the grass. “Unless he was looking for a good spot? Someplace not likely to be seen from the main road? Pulled up here, but changed his mind for some reason. Too many benches, too many rocks?”
“Possible,” Carillo said. “But why pick another spot and not this? Just as close to the water here. Maybe even closer. And there’s a perfectly serviceable bench he could use to lay out his victim. Not quite a picnic table, but a close second.”
“Maybe just a bit too visible from the street? A car drives past, he sees the headlights…”
The two stood there, looking around, trying to piece together what significance, if any, the tire tracks had. They were located on the narrow strip of grass between the street and the path that circled the water. There was a driveway, probably to allow lawn equipment up to care for the grass. At first glance it might seem a logical spot to drive up, get closer to the water, but the way was blocked by the row of green benches where people could sit and view the lake and the pagoda. Then again, as Carillo mentioned, maybe the benches so close to the water were what drew him there to begin with.
As Carillo placed a marker to direct the ERT there for photos and trace evidence collection, and with luck a cast of the tire marks, Sydney pulled out her cell phone to call Dixon. She wanted to know how likely it was that their UnSub had pulled onto the grass here. “Need a favor,” Sydney said, when Dixon answered the phone.
“As long as it doesn’t cost me manpower.”
“Not if you go yourself. I need someone at the hospital to ask Tara a couple things.”
“Such as?”
“We’re hoping she might remember something about the terrain she was driven through. Bumps, noises, that sort of thing. We’re trying to recreate his route through the park.” And then Sydney told him about the tire track gouges in the lawn.
Face of a Killer Page 13