Rall scanned first one document, then the next. The other detectives were slower, but Jarsdel could see their eyes flicker with interest as they too caught up with his own revelation.
“I dismissed the first one because it sounded nutty. Wanda Heitkamp. But based on the other reports, I think there really was someone outside her window. Just not the ‘Israelite Defense Forces.’”
“Israel Defense Forces,” corrected Rall, still reading.
“I’m quoting her directly.”
The door to the conference room opened and Sponholz stepped in, wearing another of his space-themed ties, this one a print of the Hubble Deep Field. Thousands of galaxies spiraled and blinked against the dark.
He set down the black doctor’s bag he used as a valise. “Sorry I’m late. Stuck on the phone.” He sagged into a chair. “It’s official. LA run of Phantom’s canceled. Pantages is a wreck, apparently. Needs a new roof… Don’t know when I’m gonna get my refund. And I can’t help but think of all those poor actors out of a job.” He looked around, cheeks reddening. “Sorry. You were all in what looked like a pretty intense meeting before I came blundering in here. Anything that’ll cheer me up?”
Rall crooked a thumb in Jarsdel’s direction. “Tully got somethin’.”
Sponholz’s eyes blazed with interest. “Tell me.”
“Well,” said Jarsdel, “I’ve got three reports here from neighbors peripheral to the Creeper slayings. Couple houses, maybe a block over in one direction or another. Pretty consistent in their similarities. The complainants glance out an upper-story window and see someone looking back in on them. A kind of Peeping Tom, but he’s agile, climbs trees. Also described as having a very slight physique.”
“We get a description? Please tell me we got a description.”
“No, sorry.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. But I think this could be one of his victim selection routines. He starts the observation process outside the home, sees how much the victims get his juices flowing. I looked at photos of places he actually did strike, and sure enough, there’s something available to climb either on or very close to the property. Mostly trees, but with the Rustads it was a telephone pole, and with the Santiagos it was probably the neighbor’s roof. Someone looking down from there could easily see into the Santiagos’ bedroom.”
“Hey,” said Al-Amuli. “We ought let the press know. Frustrate his routine a little. Least get people to keep their shades closed.”
Rall’s ever-present frown deepened. “Do more harm than good. You don’t want a bunch of citizens plugging away at tree trimmers or telephone linemen. And it’s a solid thing to keep to ourselves, root out false confessions.”
Sponholz looked at Mailander. “Anything else?”
Mailander shrugged. “Not much. I spoke to a neighbor who’d been out of town during the original canvass.”
“Which scene?”
“Sorry. Rustad.”
“Okay.”
“And she said she thought she heard shouting one of the nights we think the Creeper was in the house.”
“Was she able to make out any words?”
“Not sure. Maybe the word ‘stop’ a couple times, but that’s all.”
Sponholz sagged. “That’s it? That’s everything?”
“Well, it’s been months,” Mailander protested. “People’s memories fade, and false memories start to grow. I mean, there’s other stuff, but I don’t think it’s worth reporting.”
Sponholz flapped his hand in a reassuring gesture. “Hey, hey. Of course.”
“I mean I can go through it all if you want. Just so you don’t think I’m out there wasting taxpayer dollars, dicking around the city.”
“Hey. It’s understandable. I’m not upset with you. Everyone knows you’re doing your best.”
Mailander settled back in her chair, scowling.
Sponholz turned his attention to Al-Amuli. “And you?”
Al-Amuli was nodding. “Absolutely.”
“Okay, let’s do it.”
“Well, my assignment was to work deep background, look for commonalities between the victims. See if maybe there’s a chance they’re connected in some way.”
“Yes, I know all that, of course. So what’s new?”
“There’s actually a lot of stuff.”
“Such as?”
Al-Amuli produced an iPad and flicked on the screen. “So Esperanza Santiago and Sam Verheugen both went to the same high school—John Marshall.”
Sponholz grunted. “I went to Marshall. Two years ahead of Heidi Fleiss, actually. Almost asked her to prom, but then I found out she was a sophomore.”
“Who’s Heidi Fleiss?”
“Never mind. Keep going.”
Al-Amuli looked back at the screen. “So yeah, they went to Marshall, but way apart. Santiago graduated in ’88, and Verheugen in ’79, so I don’t know if that’s much of a connection. Another related potential puzzle piece is that Joanne Lauterbach used to be a teacher. Not at Marshall, but at Franklin Elementary. Might be something, might not. Uh, let’s see, what else? Ah, here we go. Sam’s wife, Beth, owned a fabric store: You Sew & Sew. Guess who shopped there?”
He paused, looking up, an eyebrow arched dramatically. “Maja…Rustad.”
When there wasn’t a reaction, Al-Amuli clarified, “Killed at the hands of the Creeper along with her husband, Steffen.”
“Yes, we know,” said Sponholz. “Any reason to believe that connection’s important?”
Al-Amuli held up his palms. “I’m just doing what Detective Rall told me, which is deep background on these victims. I figured we could feed this new info into COMPSTAT.”
“What else?”
“Well that one was pretty much my biggie, but there’s all kinds of little things. Like the Galkas and Steffen Rustad played some of the same venues. And both recorded albums at the same studio on Melrose. Uh…oh, this is a good one—Bill Lauterbach’s dad was an architect, and he actually designed the house the Verheugens lived in. Crazy, right? That one was not easy to find out.”
Sponholz looked grim. “I think we’re kind of missing the point. The idea isn’t to see how many coincidences we can spot between these people. The idea is to find a common thread that links them together in some meaningful way. Some way that might help us identify how he’s picking them.”
Al-Amuli wasn’t cowed. If anything, he looked vindicated. “Good. I’m glad I’m not the only one then who thinks this is a shit detail. Face it—whole thing’s random. There’s nothing linking these guys together. Creeper’s an opportunist. Just floats around the city and lands when he feels like it. Boom, here. Boom, there. He’s a tornado, touching down according to who-knows-why. This house gets spared, that one doesn’t.”
He moved aside his notes, revealing the Galka murder book. He tapped the cover. “We still call him the Eastside Creeper. That’s crazy. You can’t get more Westside than Topanga Area and still be in LA. One end of the city to the absolute other, snatchin’ birthdays the whole way across. There’s no sense to it.”
Sponholz drummed his fingers slowly on the table. “I’m not frustrated. Well, that’s not true—I am frustrated, but it’s more a matter of how this just seems to keep circling the drain. I’ve never had this kind of experience where every inch of headway is so damn hard-won. I know you’re all working your asses off, so there’s really not much else Detective Rall and I can ask of you. But, I gotta tell you, if I do figure out a way to ask more of you, I’m gonna have to do that. Because we’ve got a frightened city and a mad dog running wild out there, and we’re the ones who’re supposed to button this mess up. And—goddamnit—it’s just not coming together.”
He stood and began kneading the muscles at the back of his neck. The group watched him with apprehension. “I think we need to start over. Revisit our strategy.
My feeling is that in all this digging, if there was something to find we would’ve found it by now. Goodwin, thoughts please.”
“I’m with you, LT,” said Rall. “But I don’t see a whole lot we’re leaving out. Pickin’ this city apart, man. Got ’em chasing everything—the good, the bad, and the goofy-as-shit—but they ain’t come across nothin’ worth pursuing. Detective Mailander here spent two days just interviewing dog walkers. If you got something we haven’t tried, tell us and we’ll do it. Nobody likes to lose, and we’re losing.”
Sponholz had wandered over to the thermostat. “Boiling in here.” He tapped the screen until he hit a temperature he liked, then went to stand under one of the vents.
“Could look at parolees again,” said Al-Amuli, turning pages in the Galka murder book.
“Kinda already did,” said Mailander.
“Yeah, thank you, I know that. But that was mostly California, right? I’m saying we cast a wider net.”
“And what good’s that gonna do? No prints in IAFIS or Interpol, and his DNA didn’t match anything in CODIS.”
“Let’s pretend for a second I’m not the one who came up with the idea, so just listen without judging, okay? What if there was some kind of mistake or glitch or something, and his info never made it into the system?”
Rall sighed, but Al-Amuli went on. “You know that’s the problem with us today—too reliant on technology, when we need to be more common sense. Just think it through: what’s more likely—that this guy’s never served time, or his prints got deleted somewhere along the way? Or…” his expression brightened. “What if it’s no accident? What if someone deleted his file on purpose?”
Mailander squinted at him. “Who?”
“Remains to be seen. I agree that it remains to be seen. Remember Jack the Ripper, though? One of the theories as to why he got away with it is because he was an aristocrat or something. Had connections.”
Jarsdel would have been amused if the suggestion hadn’t come from a member of the Creeper task force. Mailander groaned aloud.
Al-Amuli went on. “Seriously, what if that’s kinda what’s going on here? Maybe the Creeper’s some celebrity’s kid? An actor or a studio exec, maybe. Protected.”
Sponholz looked up at the vent that should have by now been sending down jets of cooling air. “Can’t be broken. This is PAB. System’s only a decade old.”
“Probably a placebo button,” said Jarsdel.
The rest of the team turned to him. “The thermostat,” he clarified. “It’s probably a placebo button. Temperature’s set by the building engineer, and the thermostat’s just there to give you the illusion of control. Most people report feeling more comfortable after adjusting a thermostat, regardless of whether it actually works or not.”
“You making this up?” asked Sponholz.
“No, sir. It’s in this book I was reading on environmental influences. Same person who designed PuraLux.”
“Makes sense,” said Al-Amuli. “Always thought those ‘door close’ buttons on elevators were bullshit.” He’d reached the crime-scene photos in the Galka murder book. He stared at them, hypnotized by their horror.
Sponholz approached the thermostat with renewed interest. He tapped the screen a few times. “Huh,” he said. “Assholes.”
“LT.” It was Rall. The detective’s expression was anxious.
“Huh?”
“What’s the move?”
“Oh.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. I really don’t. Just keep on keepin’ on, I suppose.”
On his way back to the conference table he happened to glance down at the open murder book. He stopped, fixated on something in one of the pictures. Al-Amuli was about to turn the page but Sponholz anchored it in place with his pointer finger.
Al-Amuli looked up, confused and irritated. “What is it?”
Sponholz didn’t answer, but his eyes were alive, keen with interest.
“Everything okay, LT?” Rall asked.
“Bastard…” Sponholz murmured. Jarsdel waited, sensing more coming, but nothing did.
A long silence passed. Finally Sponholz looked up. “It’s just so heartbreaking. Whole family like that. Just wiped off the map.”
No one said anything. After another moment’s study of the photographs, he grunted and gave a sad shake of the head. He made it back over to the table and began rummaging through his doctor’s bag. “Yes indeed. Another week of this, and I’ll be ready to take Detective Al-Amuli’s advice and start looking at gossip rags for leads.” His voice dropped into the resonant baritone of an old-time radio announcer. “Another exclusive scoop from Checkout Stand Loser Impulse Buy. Son of studio head at Movies By Committee—MBC—revealed to be the long-sought Eastside Creeper.” He brought out a tube of lip balm, applied it daintily over his lips, and dropped it back in the bag.
Jarsdel studied him. The lieutenant was in performance mode again, but why? It seemed odd, coming on the heels of whatever he saw in the murder book.
Surveying the group, Sponholz smiled slyly. He continued in his announcer voice, “Family and friends, emboldened by the young man’s arrest, finally come forward. Juvenile forays into coprophagia, necrophilia, cannibalism, pyromania might have been early warning signs, they say. Did dear old dad’s connections keep his boy’s prints out of IAFIS?”
He picked up his doctor’s bag. “Sometimes I forget I have the rest of Homicide Special to run. I’ll be in my office if you need me.” On his way out the door, he stopped, touching his forehead. It was a bad pantomime of an absent-minded man trying to remember something.
“Oh, right. Say—um, Tully. Detective Jarsdel, rather, so long as we’re on the clock.”
Jarsdel blinked in surprise. “Sir?”
“Funny little hunch, probably a waste of time. But do you have the Lauterbach murder book handy?”
“Sure. It’s on my desk.”
“I’ll snag it if it’s okay with you.”
“Of course.”
“Something I want to check out.”
Rall’s interest was piqued. “Want to let us in on the big discovery, LT?”
“I don’t want to say, in case I’m wrong. Which I probably am. Ciao.” Then he was gone. The detectives looked at each other, perplexed.
“Lemme see that.” Rall reached out his hand for the Galka murder book, and Al-Amuli handed it over. “What page was he on?”
Al-Amuli got up and stood behind Rall. “Keep going. In the photos. There—no, go back one. There. That page right there.”
Jarsdel and Mailander crowded in as well, searching the pictures for anything that might have interested Sponholz.
“You see anything?” asked Al-Amuli.
“I see all kinds of things,” said Rall.
“I mean—”
“Quiet, man. Let me think in peace a goddamned second.”
Jarsdel was glad none of the pictures showed the Galka boys. He wasn’t in the mood just then for the Creeper’s particular brand of mayhem. There were six pictures laid out across two pages. Three of them were of the exterior of the Galka house. A shot of the garage, the mailbox, and the front door, which stood ajar. A smear of dried blood in the vague shape of a hand was visible on the wall nearest the doorbell. It looked like the killer had stumbled upon exiting and caught himself there.
The next three pictures were interior shots. The entryway, upon which a small table held a basket of dusty pinecones and, Jarsdel noted queasily, a coil of human feces. A close-up of a framed family photograph, with more blood smears on the glass. Another close-up, this time of a piece of dark-red plastic lying against a background of shaggy brown carpet. An SID tech had set a ruler next to it for comparison. Just over an inch at its widest, and obviously trimmed from a larger piece. A neat, ninety-degree corner, with the opposite side arcing gently inward but not neat enough to have been factory c
ut. Something about it, particularly its shape, seemed strangely familiar, but he couldn’t place it.
“Got me,” said Rall. “No idea.”
“Think he’s just messing with us?” said Al-Amuli.
“He wouldn’t joke about this kinda thing.” Rall shut the murder book and handed it back to Al-Amuli. “He’ll let us know if he got anything.”
Jarsdel and the others dispersed, filing out of the conference room and back to their desks.
* * *
There wasn’t much else Jarsdel could get done that day—at least nothing that necessitated him hanging around PAB. He had another stack of reports to cull through, and that was a job that could just as easily be done at home in the company of Sonny Chillingworth’s honeyed voice and slack-key guitar.
“Hey, Tully.” It was a woman, but she spoke in tones too pleasant to be Mailander’s. Jarsdel turned around in his swivel chair and saw Alisha Varma. She wore one of her business suits—dark green this time—and of course her trademark red lipstick. A large visitor’s badge was pasted over the slope of her chest.
Jarsdel couldn’t hide his pleasure in seeing her. “Hey.”
“This is where you work,” she said, looking around. “Not really what I expected. ‘Homicide Special.’ I was thinking big wooden desks, slowly revolving ceiling fans, wanted posters with darts sticking out of them, or—”
“Yeah, I know,” said Jarsdel. “Looks more like an insurance firm. Same thing I thought. You’re not here for me, are you?”
“No. I mean, I am now, but my appointment was with the chief.”
Jarsdel tried not to look impressed. “So what can I do for you?”
Varma pulled up a chair and sat next to him. “Nothing really. I was in the building so I thought I’d stop by and say hello. I was also giving some more thought to what we were talking about the other day. About vampires. Vampires hiding out, taking refuge so the Van Helsings of the world can’t get to them while they’re most vulnerable. So I took it further, tried to see how an idea like that might apply to the case you’re working. The Creeper.”
“How so?”
“Well, have you considered searching for him with that in mind? Thinking of him basically as a vampire? Where’s his crypt, right? Where does he go between attacks? Does he blend in, or is he obviously bonkers?”
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