by Luke Murphy
“Fine,” she replied, shaking away his hand.
She looked again at the massive blood shed quickly studying the scene, cataloguing the images, understanding the kind of psychopathic rage it took to commit such evil—blood spatter on the walls and ceiling, bed sheets soaked in red, and the body chopped to pieces.
If the body had been found in the woods, it would have taken dental records to identify it. But since it was in this house, enough information was found to identify the victim. The walls, floor, and bed sheets were smeared with blood. It was all very messy, the Celebrity Slayer’s style. It usually took DNA analysis to generate an identity.
Charlene needed fresh air.
As she left the house, she thought about the phone call she’d received. Now that she thought about it, it was very hard to believe that the person who had committed this crime had also killed her father. Maybe the captain was right, that it had been some kid playing a prank.
But what about the note?
~ * ~
She could have tried to grab a couple of hours of sleep when she got home, but what was the point? Her meeting with the LAPD shrink was in a few hours.
She was exhausted, but more frustrated with her captain. She’d driven to the scene excited, in anticipation of working her first case. And with the note, she was directly related to the killing. How could he ignore that?
And why would he assign two new detectives, still wet behind the ears, when she and Larry were more than capable? Why was that? What was the captain hiding, or trying to protect her from?
She trudged up the stairs and when she turned the corner, noticed that the lock on her door had been tampered with.
Dread flooded her as panic slithered up her spine. She pulled out her sidearm.
The neighbor’s door opened and a man stepped out, adjusting a burgundy tie. When he saw Charlene, his eyes bulged, and he quickly stepped back inside. Charlene had lived in the apartment for three years, but didn’t know any of the neighbors.
She slowly stepped inside her apartment and stood still, her ears on alert. She didn’t hear anything. Charlene searched each room methodically. The small bachelor pad was quick to search.
Confident that she was alone, Charlene began to look if anything was missing, when a ripple of fear swept over her skin.
She’d always had the ability to keep panic at bay, but Charlene’s heart almost stopped beating, her breath caught in the middle of her chest. Her futon had been made and an LA Dodgers ball cap had been placed neatly over the bedspread.
The hairs rose on her neck as she secured the apartment one more time, returning cautiously to the bed.
Even with the sudden urge to act, adrenaline squeezing her stomach into knots, Charlene followed police procedure. Using a dry cloth, she carefully lifted the hat and examined it.
She kept her own Dodgers hat at the station, and this one was set at a bigger fit.
She noticed a couple of hairs tucked inside, so she placed the hat into a plastic Ziploc bag. Later, she would take the hat to the lab to test for hair fibers, comparing them with her father’s. She would also test the hat for fingerprints.
This was a message.
She was now definitely too wired to sleep. She picked through the dirty clothes hamper, still replaying the last couple of hours in her mind. She checked the clock—two hours before her appointment.
Charlene found her black bicycle shorts and sports training bra and pulled them on, throwing a track suit on over top. Grabbing her iPod on the way out, she left the apartment, making sure to lock the door, and took the flight of stairs down to the parking lot.
She took ten minutes to stretch, making sure her quads, hamstrings, and calves were loose. She didn’t see any suspicious vehicles in the area, so she placed the headphones over her ears and started out at a leisurely pace on her regular route.
She’d always been boyishly nimble, which had impressed her father, and running every morning made sure she remained that way.
Once she turned off Maryland Street onto South Lucas Avenue, she picked up the pace, pushing herself. She passed the Good Samaritan Hospital where every morning the crowd outside would wave to her.
Charlene used these morning runs to sweat out the hangover, forget her problems and just run. This was her time to hate herself, to make herself stronger, better.
~ * ~
The sun was starting to peek over the horizon when she arrived back at her apartment forty-five minutes later, feeling half human again. She was impressed that her breathing was only slightly labored.
She let herself in and shed the sweaty garments on her way to the bathroom. She entered now fully awake, the booze sweated out of her. Starting the shower, she leaned her head over the sink, splashed cold water over her face, and used a hand towel to wipe away the combination of water and perspiration.
Catching herself in the mirror, she admired her new haircut. Her father would have hated it. He didn’t believe women should have short hair, but she needed a change. Her dirty blonde locks now hung only inches below her ears.
She turned around and inspected the large tattoo on the middle of her lower back, remnants of a night of binge drinking and regretful decisions. The butterfly was wrapped in a broken-linked chain.
She turned back towards the mirror. The heavy drinking, sleepless nights, and her careless lifestyle were beginning to wear her down. She needed to turn her life around.
Her deep blue eyes were now bloodshot from last night’s binge. Bags were beginning to form below them. She’d been a police officer for only five years and she’d been working herself to the bone. The life of a detective wasn’t going to get any easier.
After a quick shower, Charlene dressed and grabbed her belt and holster that hung from the treadmill. She could grab a coffee and bagel on the way.
Chapter 6
On her way to work, Charlene called her mother to check in, something she had never done before. Step two to making things right. They had a nice talk and exchanged pleasantries. It felt good to be a daughter again.
She arrived at the Detective Bureau before seven, squeezed some Visine in each eye, and entered the building. She was surprised that the doctor had agreed to meet so early. With them it was usually, “I have a slot available, take it or leave it.”
But Dr. Edward Gardner had spent thirteen years tending to cops, knew their reservations, their quirks, and he accepted the responsibility of complying with his patients’ peculiar wishes. He was the lone member of the LAPD Detective Bureau Psyche staff and had made some enemies on the force due to his intellectual arrogance.
He had seen cops come and go, counseling emotional employees who put their life on the line every day. Police work had the highest rate of suicide of any occupation.
The forty-two-year-old psychiatrist was also the LAPD psychological consultant for many of their serial cases. He was currently assisting the Hollywood Division in the Celebrity Slayer case, and Charlene was hoping to find out what he knew about the psychological balance of the killer.
While many LAPD members were cynical about assurances of confidentiality from law enforcement psychiatrists, Gardner had a solid reputation for professionalism and discretion.
Charlene waited in the corridor, looking at pictures of former cops—those who played major roles in the LAPD’s past. One photo in particular caught her interest.
In 1910, the LAPD appointed the nation’s first female policewoman with arrest powers. Alice Stebbins Wells was a policewoman for thirty years and became a Sergeant in 1934 before retiring in 1940.
Charlene heard footsteps on the stairs and saw the doctor appear. He looked more like a hippie from the seventies, with a long gray pony tail and beard. He wore a dress jacket and scarf and had a novel tucked under his arm.
“Sorry I’m late, Detective,” he apologized, taking a second glance into her eyes.
He unlocked the door and let Charlene in. She followed him, passing his desk, across the room, but didn�
�t sit down. Gardner removed his jacket and hung it on a coat rack in the corner. Underneath his jacket the psychiatrist wore a short-sleeved buttoned shirt exposing a bulging vein running down his left arm. The doctor’s body was wiry, well sculpted from his LAPD weight room membership.
He grabbed a pen and pad off the top of his desk and sat in a high-back chair facing Charlene. He chewed on the end of his pen and surveyed her with gray eyes, giving Charlene a shiver.
Neither said a word. It was a staring contest. Charlene picked at some dead skin on her fingers.
Finally he said, “Please sit down, Detective.”
Before sitting, she said, “Look, Doc, I have no interest in being here. The captain says it’s mandatory, so be it. But it doesn’t mean I have to like it.” She noticed the edge in her voice, well practiced from years of developing defense mechanisms with her father.
The doctor smiled. He had a prominent Adam’s apple and Charlene watched it move when he spoke. “I understand, Detective. How do you feel about the stipulations of your promotion?”
“Great,” she said sarcastically. “A detective delegated to menial work and seeing a shrink. I’m a department joke.”
“So you don’t feel all of this is necessary?”
Charlene shook her head. “Doc, I don’t have a drinking problem.”
“Opinions vary.”
“Yeah, my colleagues. They think it’s weird that I came back to work so early after my father’s death.”
“Work can be therapeutic.”
“That’s what I said.” At least someone was on her side.
“Did you have a drink last night?”
Charlene diverted her eyes, looking around the spacious office, decorated with frigid elegance. The walls were covered with the doctor’s awards and accolades, a diploma from Columbia University and pictures of the doctor shaking hands and mingling at various functions with LA celebrities. A long, oak-stained bookshelf covered an entire wall and was lined with books on police conduct, police procedures, crime scene processes, and psychological reference textbooks. The padded leather sofa was positioned with mathematical accuracy, but she had chosen a straight-back chair, sitting tensely.
She turned back to the doctor, the inside of her cheek tightly clasped between her teeth.
“I had a couple to blow off some steam. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“You’re right,” he agreed. “There is nothing wrong with blowing off a little steam from time to time. But we need to talk about frequency and quantity.”
Charlene silently nodded.
He went on. “Do you miss your father?”
“What kind of question is that? Of course I do.”
Don’t be so defensive.
“Let’s talk about your relationship with Martin.”
She shrugged. “It was normal.”
He leaned back in his chair, looking to relax a little more. He steepled his fingers. “So you never felt the pressure of living up to his example?”
“Maybe a bit. But pressure can be a positive thing.”
“If handled correctly. What about your home life?”
“Look, Doc, I get the feeling that you already know that my father wasn’t much of a dad and we didn’t bond. He was rarely home, and he was married to his work more than his family. Let’s not waste each other’s time.”
“How did it make you feel growing up without a male role model?”
“I was fine with it.”
“What about your mother and sister?”
“You’d have to ask them. They might have had a problem with it.”
He smiled again. “No, I mean, how was your relationship with them?”
“I never understood my mom, how she could put up with my dad. My sister and I never had much in common. She is the Barbie doll, drama queen, make up and boyfriends type. But I’m working on rebuilding that.”
He nodded. “Boyfriend?”
“I’m seeing someone.”
“Is it serious?”
Charlene shrugged her shoulder. “Not as serious as he would like, but I’m satisfied with the arrangement.”
“What about your friends?”
“My best friend lives in New York, and with my life, I don’t exactly have the opportunity to make new friends.”
Neither said a word for almost five minutes. Charlene began to fidget and moved to the edge of her seat.
“So what do you think, Doc?”
After a pregnant pause, he answered. “I think you’re drinking heavily, you’re emotionally shut down in your personal life, and almost too emotional in your professional life. You’re isolated from family and possibly friends as well. You have trust and commitment issues. You have a personal demon—your father’s death means you can never repair that relationship. You can never make it right with him.”
She let out her breath. “Wow! That was quick.”
“There are five stages of grief, Detective. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance—and there is no timeline. It’s my job to help you get through them and then we’ll go from there.”
“What about my job?”
“I’ll talk to the captain. I think we can work something out.”
~ * ~
Her partner was at his desk when she got upstairs. His computer was off and the LA Times was open. There was a pile of LAPD Detective manuals on Charlene’s desk, and a thin folder with a post-it note resting on top.
“Get any sleep?” Larry asked.
She sat down and removed her jacket and holster. “Some,” she lied. “So what should I do?”
“Go through those manuals,” he nodded at the pile, “and get caught up with our policies and procedures. Then go through that folder.”
“What is it?” Charlene asked, lifting it off the pile and opening it.
“It’s a copy of transcripts taken from neighbors of one of the cases I’m currently working. I’ve been pulled off the Celebrity Slayer case to babysit,” he grunted. “We have a shitload of older cases to go through.”
Charlene could clearly see the look of disgust on her partner’s face. She didn’t reply. What could she say?
“You smoke, Taylor?”
She shook her head.
“Wonderful, another non-smoker. What is it with this generation? You think you’ll live any longer than the rest of us? I’m going out for one. When I come back, we’ll get at it.”
He heaved his large bulk out of his seat and waddled across the room, finding a fellow smoker and ushering him outside.
When Charlene grabbed a pen from Larry’s desk, she accidentally bumped the sliding keyboard drawer, moving the mouse, and the computer came to life. An ongoing game of solitaire appeared on the screen, and no other links were open. The solitaire was on hour thirty-eight.
She opened the first manual and had just started reading when Larry returned.
“I’m going to pound the pavement, Taylor.”
She looked up from her reading, closed the book, and jumped to her feet.
“Where are you going?” Larry asked.
“With you.”
“I don’t think so. You need to go through that stuff. You haven’t been cleared yet.”
“Come on, Larry. We both know this is a waste of time.”
“That’s true.” He smiled. “Sorry, Kid, captain’s rules. Here’s my cell number, use it if you need anything. Plug it into your phone.”
She blew out her breath and sat back down, saving Larry’s number in her phone. She watched her partner leave, and when Charlene was certain he wasn’t returning, she closed the book and got up.
It was only a ten minute drive to the Hertzberg-Davis Forensic Science Center at California State University, but Charlene didn’t want to be seen leaving the building when she’d been given strict orders to stay.
The Hertzberg-Davis Forensic Science Center is home to the LAPD’s Scientific Investigation Division, the LA County Sheriff’s Department Scientific Services Bureau
and the University’s Criminal Justice program.
She opened her cell and placed a called.
“And to what do I owe this honor?” the responder said.
Charlene smiled. “Hello, Dana.”
“It’s about time you called. I thought now that you were a hot shot detective you were too good for us lab rats.”
Dana Davis and Charlene had joined the force at the same time and went through training together. Dana had spent her first two LAPD years as a patrol officer, and she and Charlene had immediately hit it off. But when Dana landed on the CSI team three years ago, Charlene saw less of her. Dana worked for a special task unit in the Trace Evidence Lab, handling and testing important evidence for most big cases.
“Sorry, been kind of busy,” Charlene said.
“I didn’t get to talk at the funeral. I’m so sorry, Char.”
“Thanks.”
“But we need to celebrate this promotion, girly.”
“I know, I know.”
“So, what’s up?”
“Are you working today?”
“Charlene, I’m always working.”
“Any chance you could go for a drive?”
“I’ll be there in ten.”
Charlene hung up and went downstairs, retrieving her evidence bag from the car. Seven minutes later, Dana’s Red Prelude screeched around the corner and braked sharply in front of the building.
Charlene handed the bag through the open window.
“High priority,” Charlene said.
“Huh, who do you think you are, Detective?” the CSI tech said and then smiled.
“Someone with a best friend in high places,” Charlene responded. “I also have a hair sample from my father’s brush.” She handed it over.
“Seems like you have all the bases covered. Shouldn’t take long.”
“Call me with the results.”
Dana squealed out of the parking lot and merged into traffic without signaling or checking her mirrors.
Back in room 637, Charlene found Detectives Berkley and Harris huddled around the coffee machine.
“You guys still working the Slayer case?”
Berkley looked at Harris, and then nodded.