Haarmann began to laugh. Jarsdel pointed at him. “And it’s perfect now, because you’ve got this empty vessel to back you up on every bit of poison and hopelessness. Your own feedback loop, affirming everything you already believe.”
Morales stepped close. “You’re making an ass out of yourself.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Jarsdel. “With Varma gone everything goes back to the way it was. There’s no growth, no learning. Back to what’s comfortable, even if it’s stupid. Even if we’re treating the symptom instead of the disease. Which I suppose is great for guys like you and Haarmann. You two are gonna absolutely thrive. Good for you, a shame for the rest of us.”
“Professor. Go home.”
Jarsdel flinched. Morales’s invocation of that first and most hated nickname changed the flavor of the argument. He was dismissing him, dismissing him as if he were a nuisance, an amateur.
“I can offer…” he began, but Morales flicked his hand at him.
“Go home. We’ll call if there’s anything else we need from you, but don’t hold your breath.”
19
Ed Sponholz answered the door in a pair of green sweatpants and a sleeveless gray tee with Donington Park ’86 across its breast. When he turned away, Jarsdel saw it was from sort of mega rock concert. The bands listed were Iron Maiden, Dokken, Cinderella, Dangerous Toys, and Pretty Maids. Even if Jarsdel hadn’t been a toddler, he very much doubted he would’ve found himself in Donington Park in 1986.
Sponholz slunk into the house, giving the barest wave to indicate Jarsdel should follow. He led them to the living room and pointed to a black leather couch, the kind that sucked on your thighs if you were wearing shorts. Jarsdel sat while Sponholz moved to the bar and pulled a Calicraft Kolsch from a mini-fridge. He wedged the cap into a wall-mounted opener and, with a practiced turn of the wrist, sent it spinning into a wooden box hanging below. Someone, probably Sponholz, had scrawled on the box in Sharpie, “Don’t bother checking your watch—it’s five o’clock!”
Jarsdel did check his watch and saw it wasn’t quite noon. Sponholz must have caught him doing it, because he said, “If you’re gonna be like that, Detective, you might as well take off.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You want one?”
“Oh. No thanks. Appreciate it, though.”
Sponholz took a swig of the beer, smacked his lips, then fell into a recliner. The footrest deployed automatically, and Sponholz was nearly horizontal. He took another long pull on the bottle.
“Your dime, go ahead. What d’you need?”
Jarsdel cleared his throat. “Just a few questions. About that night. Maybe get your thoughts on a few things.”
“Where’s Goodwin? And the rest of the team?”
“Everyone’s on their own assignments.”
Sponholz offered a sad smile. “And you drew the short straw?”
“Not at all, sir,” said Jarsdel. “I volunteered.”
That gave Sponholz pause. He eyed Jarsdel with curiosity—or perhaps suspicion. “Wow. You volunteered to drive from Downtown LA to Northridge. Must really want to talk.”
Jarsdel flipped open his field notebook and turned a few pages, reviewing his notes. It was unnecessary—he knew exactly what he wanted to ask. But it allowed for an easy transition.
“I’m wondering,” he began, then corrected himself. “We’re all wondering, how did the Creeper know your—uh, Amy, that she was gonna be alone. If you have any ideas.”
Sponholz wiped his hand down his face and gave his head a quick little shake. “I can only figure he saw me leave. Or maybe he looked in our garage—there’s a little window off the side door where you can see in—and saw my car was gone. Then Amy probably turned on a light or something, so he knew she was there.”
“Then I guess my next question would be why’d he wait so long?”
“Don’t know what you mean, ‘Wait so long.’ What’s that mean—wait so long for what?”
“If he saw you leave, or if he was watching the place all night, why wait so long to attack? As far as we can tell, he committed the assault maybe ten or fifteen minutes before you arrived. Tempting fate a little, right? I mean, if you’d been any earlier, that would’ve been it for him.”
“I’ve been asking myself that question over and over. Like he knew my routine, knew around what time I’d be home. The only thing I can figure is that he wanted me to see how close he could get to me, with his planning and his timing.”
Jarsdel pursed his lips, considering that. “You said before, back when we talked early that morning at Devonshire Station, that Amy left the back door unlocked a lot of the time.”
“Yes.”
“How’d he know that, though? That it was unlocked?”
Sponholz shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“And what if it hadn’t been? What was he going to do then?”
“Again, no idea. I guess we’ll never know the answer to that, unfortunately.”
“And how did he know she wouldn’t be armed? That the wife of a police lieutenant didn’t have a spare firearm? Seems like a huge gamble.”
“I agree with you,” said Sponholz. “Seems pretty nuts. Then again, this guy likes to rape men with their own dicks, so I guess we can’t always expect him to behave reasonably.”
Sponholz was getting frustrated, so Jarsdel decided to back off a little. He looked again at his notes, counted silently to five, then asked, “Any idea why Amy didn’t call the police when the alarm went off?”
“I’m assuming she didn’t have time. Pretty easy to make it upstairs from the back door if you’re in a hurry.”
That was true. Jarsdel had run several trials himself, and it had never taken him more than eight seconds. The Creeper must have moved without hesitation, despite the deafening alarm, to make it upstairs fast enough before Amy could react. All the same…
“All the same,” Jarsdel said aloud. “Why didn’t she lock the door to the bedroom?”
“What do you mean?”
“She didn’t lock the door. No sign of forced entry, and we didn’t even find her prints on the knob. That means she didn’t so much as touch it since it was cleaned earlier that morning. Now, granted, it probably wouldn’t have given her enough time to call the cops and wait to talk to an operator, but when the alarm went off, why didn’t she at least lock the door? It was just a little privacy lock on the handle, but it would’ve slowed him down.”
Sponholz looked confused. “It wouldn’t have occurred to her.”
“It wouldn’t have occurred to her to lock the door? With the alarm going off like that? Why not?”
“Because…” Sponholz appeared to realize something, and sighed. “Oh, I see. You guys think…” He took another deep swallow of his Kolsch, then bent his legs sharply. The footrest swung back into the recliner, and Sponholz got to his feet. “Here. Follow me.”
The two men left the living room, crossed the foyer, and before long were at the door off the kitchen—the same one the Creeper had come through. Sponholz pointed to an alarm security panel fastened on the wall to the right of the jamb. He approached it and pressed a button marked “STAY.” An emotionless male voice announced that the system was “Arming now.” A readout on the alarm system began counting down from thirty. Beeping sounded at regular intervals to warn anyone who cared to listen that the house would soon be fully protected.
When the countdown finished, an icon of a closed padlock appeared on the panel’s small screen. Sponholz turned to Jarsdel and pointed at the display.
“Okay, I’m with you,” said Jarsdel.
Sponholz made his way over to the unlocked back door, turned the handle, and pushed it open. Jarsdel prepared himself for the shrill pealing of the alarm, but it didn’t come. Instead, the panel spat out a few indignant beeps, and the readout once again began counting
down from thirty.
“That’s it,” said Sponholz. “It’ll make noises like that for thirty seconds, but the actual alarm doesn’t go off until the time runs out. This one and the front door both give you a grace period before going full out. Think how annoying that’d be if it didn’t do that, right? If you came home and right as you walked in, it started blasting? Nah, you get thirty seconds to turn off the system.” He punched in a code, and the countdown ceased.
“I mean yeah, we’ve got a few windows wired, and those’ll go off right away if the alarm’s set,” he continued. “But in this case, basically he would’ve had thirty seconds to get upstairs before the alarm actually started howling. So Amy wouldn’t have heard a thing, and by then it would’ve been too late.”
“You don’t have any panels upstairs?” said Jarsdel.
Sponholz shook his head.
“Nothing that would’ve been beeping up there?”
“You’re welcome to look around if you don’t believe me.”
“No, ’course I believe you,” said Jarsdel. He didn’t know why, but he was frustrated. He’d been somehow sure the discrepancy between the tripped alarm and Amy not locking the door would lead to a breakthrough. But Sponholz’s solution—banal as it was—made perfect sense. Jarsdel felt silly.
Sponholz offered a sad smile. “I know how you feel. I’m the same way, chasing an idea, then getting to watch it dead-end somewhere. I can tell you it’s the sign of a good policeman. Someone who cares deeply for what he does, and for justice as a…as a goddamned law of nature. And he himself as an agent of that law.” His eyes welled up.
Christ, here we go again, thought Jarsdel. It seemed every time he saw Sponholz, the lieutenant worked himself into tears.
Jarsdel immediately chided himself for judging the man. He’s lost his wife, asshole. Murdered by the dark, twisted thing he’s been chasing. And you’re going to begrudge him some psychological frailty?
But some sign of distaste must have nonetheless appeared on Jarsdel’s face, because Sponholz’s dewy, pleading eyes dulled suddenly. The skin around his mouth, which was on its way from crinkly to craggy, smoothed out. He sniffed and stood up straight.
“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“Not at all,” said Jarsdel. I’m just a huge dickhead, he thought. Your wife is strangled, her body profaned, and I’m here to make you feel awkward for getting a little emotional. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through,” he added.
“Man. Man oh man oh man,” said Sponholz. “There’s a part of me—a pretty big part—that can’t really imagine it, either. That’s telling me this is just some kind of absurd dream, or that I’ve slipped past the veil into a parallel dimension, and that I just need to—you know—tap my ruby slippers together and I’ll end up back where I belong. Back where everything makes sense.”
Jarsdel looked over his shoulder at the open door. Beyond was a large yard, the grass long dead. A high cyclone fence separated it from neighboring property. “Do we know how he got into your backyard?” he asked.
“Hmm?” Sponholz turned and followed Jarsdel’s gaze. “Oh. I’m assuming he climbed the fence. Isn’t too hard to do if you’re young and athletic, I presume.”
“Such a risk, though,” said Jarsdel. “He could’ve trapped himself. So again I’m just curious how he knew that door was going to be open.”
“Maybe he didn’t,” said Sponholz. “Maybe he had picks on him. Planned on getting in no matter what. We know he’s carried other tools in the past. Saws, files, so why not picks?”
“Right, yeah, that makes sense. Still, lucky guy. Always very lucky. Everything always swings his way. Especially how you and he barely missed each other. You were working out, right?”
Sponholz chuckled. “Yeah, I try to stay in shape. If you start putting off workouts just because you’re tired, you’ll always think of an excuse.”
“You were at the gym at PAB?”
“Yup.”
“It’s open all night?”
“All night, all day.”
Jarsdel thought about that, and Sponholz nodded. “Yeah,” said the lieutenant. “Believe me, it’s only crossed my mind about a million times. If I hadn’t gone to the gym, Amy might still be alive.”
“I’m sorry. Being the one to dredge all this up.”
“Don’t be. I’ll tell you, this job’s easier to do when you don’t know the poor souls you gotta interview. You’re a professional, though, and I appreciate that. Is there anything else you need from me? Because I’m about through, emotionally.”
“No, sir. That’s it.”
Sponholz clapped him on the shoulder. “Tell the rest of the gang I’m doing okay. As okay as can be. I’ll be back when—well, when I’m able.”
“There’s no hurry.”
“Not needed, huh?”
“No, that’s not what I meant at—”
“Relax, Detective. Busting your balls. Not really the joking-around type, are you?”
The two men moved through the house toward the foyer. Jarsdel kept getting little whiffs of something unpleasant, like a heavy fish smell. Sponholz must have cooked some recently—a greasy kind, too, like a salmon or maybe a mackerel. Jarsdel could imagine the volatile little molecules wafting throughout the house and burying themselves in the carpet and upholstery and curtains. The house itself was absolutely silent. What a strange thing—a quiet house and a noisy smell. Jarsdel wanted very badly to leave.
Sponholz opened the front door, and to Jarsdel the experience was like clearing your ears after your plane touches down on the runway—the world suddenly alive and rich with all the sounds you didn’t even know you’d missed. A wind chime a block away, a playing card snapping through the spokes of some kid’s bike, the angry squawk of a crow chasing an intruder from its nest. Ahead of him was life—the sun-swept, humming life of LA in summer. Behind him was death. Heavy, suffocating death. Jarsdel practically leapt outside. He turned and faced Sponholz, who remained in the doorway, a man more of death than of life.
“Sir—” Jarsdel began.
“Ed.”
“Ed. Are you sure you want to be staying here? It’s none of my business—just seems like it must be really hard.”
“You’re a good young man,” said the lieutenant. “But I want it to hurt. I want every passing day to be a misery. It’s not right that Amy’s gone, that she suffered the way she did and I got away. So until that monster, that demon from hell is brought in, I don’t see why I should get off so easy.”
Jarsdel had trouble following the man’s logic, but he supposed it made more sense when seen through the lens of grief. Grief was still mostly foreign to him. He thought of how Varma had looked in the parking lot; as bad as it was, she hadn’t been his wife. No one Jarsdel loved had ever even been sick, though he suspected—after having last seen his ever-more-skeletal father—that such a reality wasn’t too far out of reach.
“I want you to do me a favor, Tully.”
“Sure, of course.”
“If you do find him, if you do find the Creeper—”
“We will. We will find him.”
“Yeah, I know. Rah-rah and all that. No one’s been able to do it so far. But let’s say you do find him… I want you to put him down.”
Jarsdel wasn’t sure what to say to that, and Sponholz went on.
“I know. You’re a cop, not an executioner. But spread the word anyway. I do not want to testify. I do not want to get in front of the scum-sucking media and the foul creature itself and bare my heart to the world. Tell everyone what it was like finding my beloved Amy with a broomstick…”
He spasmed, shutting his eyes and jamming a fist against his mouth. Jarsdel watched as Sponholz took a series of deep breaths. Ten seconds passed, then twenty, then nearly thirty before Sponholz finally went on. “I wan
t to get a nice phone call from you or Rall or somebody just telling me that it’s all over. That our guy got double-tapped into whatever’s waiting for him in the great beyond. That’s what I’m asking. Think you can do that?”
Jarsdel answered without hesitation. “No.”
Sponholz looked at him curiously.
“I can’t imagine”—Jarsdel lifted a hand in the direction of the house—“any of this, but I can’t do what you’re asking. It’s not what our side is supposed to stand for.”
Sponholz smiled. “Exactly. And that’s why I’m so glad I picked you for my team. You’ve got an unshakable moral core, and I admire you so goddamned much.”
He held out his hand, and Jarsdel took it automatically. Sponholz gave it a vigorous squeeze, then let him go.
“I…” Jarsdel began, then reconsidered his words. “So that was some kind of a test?”
“No,” said Sponholz. “I really did want you to gun him down. But the way you put that, how stalwart you are in everything, you’ve reminded me exactly what it is we do. And I’m so very grateful to you.”
Jarsdel studied the lieutenant’s face. There were still shadows. He could see them. Faint shadows of the scratches Sponholz had sustained from falling into the tree. Strange that a tree branch could make those so perfectly. Three scratches, side by side, along his left cheek. Just as a right-handed person would make when trying to defend herself.
“I need to ask you something,” he said.
“Yes. I thought so.”
“You thought so?”
“You had the look. I know that look. A suspicious man.”
“I’m not suspicious,” said Jarsdel.
“Of course you are,” said Sponholz. “It’s what makes you a first-class investigator.”
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