Compare with Minchew. No gloves at the Minchew scene. Fingerprints, yes. Was that right? All the ones at Sponholz had been latents, invisible to the naked eye until raised by fingerprint powder. Had there actually been any latents at Minchew? He didn’t remember.
Jarsdel left the apartment, stepping out into the open-air hallway and a soft LA night. He could hear the traffic on Franklin, smell burgers grilling at a twenty-four-hour diner across the street. He was suddenly hungry, overcome by a powerful and insistent appetite.
The prints, Tully. First the prints, then food.
No, first food, then the prints. Neither Amy Sponholz nor the Minchews were going anywhere. He didn’t know what it was, but he was getting close to something and needed energy.
The fog was finally lifting, and for the first time in months, there was some clarity.
The Creeper had gotten to him. He saw that now—gotten to him more than he’d realized, sent him scurrying for the comfort of his intellect, where he could preen and posture with impunity. It was a sturdy, dependable redoubt, its defensive walls bricked with theories and postulates, its watchtowers stocked with observations, ideas, and clever rebuttals. So hungry had he been for answers that he’d run blindly into the embrace of a sociopath.
“Played me like a fiddle,” he said, hurrying down the stairs to the ground floor. He frowned, disappointed with the unoriginality of the simile. And fiddles weren’t especially easy to play. Like a what, then? An autoharp? A triangle? A maraca?
Stop. Stop your unceasing, chattering mind.
He reached his car and pulled into traffic, heading east on Franklin. He shook his head, sensing a hard question coming and trying to silence it in utero. But he couldn’t stop if from forming.
What was it he actually wanted?
To be among those who renew the world.
Yes, there was that. But did he still believe in the impending birth of a new, enlightened humanity? It seemed harder and harder to recall the true believer who’d abandoned his career, sacrificed his engagement and his parents’ affection, all for an inchoate need to act.
You don’t want to admit it, Tully, but you’re no better than your biology. Like everyone else, what you really want is to be in control. It’s our species’ biggest turn-on. Do something and observe the result. Impose your will and bend your own little corner of the universe. A drive so basic, it can be seen in infants.
Could be, he conceded. Could be he’d engaged in an elaborate self-deception, that his idealism was simply a costume for the primitive human desire to make one’s mark.
This is the night we dispense with lies. This is the night we decide what we are.
All right. He’d assume the worst—he didn’t have an altruistic bone in his body. Everything he did was borne of selfishness, and he’d left academe because it hadn’t sufficiently boosted his esteem, or provided enough opportunities to cause a physical change in the environment and say, “Look, I did that.”
He let the idea stay with him, turning it around in his mind like a puzzle piece, seeing if it fit.
He couldn’t tell whether or not it was true. Would it make a difference if it were? Varma had said that a fine might be the only reason a company didn’t dump its waste in a river. What mattered in the end, however, is that the river stays clean, not what the company’s motivations are. Doubtless she’d used a similar rationale to justify doctoring statistics or maiming people to get her projects off the ground.
We’re talking about you, not Varma. Tonight you come clean.
He played a scene for himself. Standing in the doorway of Emma Minchew’s bedroom. Her small form curled on the carpet. She’d probably heard something—a scream or the sounds of a struggle—and gotten out of bed to investigate. That was when she met up with the killer, her parents’ hot blood fresh on his hands, and he’d either led her back into her bedroom or intercepted her before she could come out of her room. Tackled her to the floor so easily—no effort at all, the strength of a grown man against a six-year-old child. And then he sat on her chest, forcing the air from her lungs, pressed the pillow over her face and leaned into it.
The scene changed. A faculty lounge somewhere, and he’s trying to avoid another stack of graduate essays on Periclean democracy or the Stoic syllogistic. Someone left the Los Angeles Times on the table. He opens it, knowing he’s procrastinating, but promises he’ll get back to work in five minutes. A headline—Family Slain in Reseda, and the subheading, Police Indicate They May Be Latest Victims of Eastside Creeper. He reads the article, feels revulsion that the event occurred. Feels sad and depressed that a little girl was murdered. Wonders where he was when the murder took place. Concludes he was probably in bed. Speculates how terrifying it would be to have someone break into your house and kill you. Experiences relief that it hasn’t happened to him. Experiences anxiety that it could. Consoles himself with the very long odds of such a scenario unfolding. Revives his anxiety by reminding himself that the odds were long for the girl, too, but she was still dead, wasn’t she? Debates keeping a weapon in his bedside drawer. Like what, though? A gun?
Then he’d have to deal with all the rigmarole of buying and storing it. Oh, and learn how to use it, too. And then of course there were the moral implications of such a move. Is it wrong to support a company that makes things that kill people? But what about his right to defend himself? If someone broke in and he didn’t have a gun, he’d feel ridiculous for not getting one when he had the chance. Well, he’d feel ridiculous until he died at the hands of the intruder. Then again, he lives in a gated apartment complex.
Back to the odds again—absolutely absurd to be concerned. Much more likely for a kid to come over and pick up the gun and shoot himself. That sort of thing happened all the time. But he doesn’t know any kids. Might meet one, though. What if he ends up dating a single mom? What a terrifying thought, her son wandering into his bedroom and finding that gun. And the mom, she’d feel so betrayed. How could you keep a gun without telling me? Now my son is dead and it’s all your fault.
He now experiences more angst from his inner debate about buying the gun than he had from reading the article. Then he remembers his parents are also potential targets of the Creeper. That worries him. If there’s anyone in Los Angeles who’d be an easier mark than he is, it’s his dads. He considers telling them to be more vigilant about security. Decides it’s probably not a good idea, that it will only frighten them. Reconsiders. Sends them a text to make sure their doors and windows are locked. Finally puts the newspaper aside, peels off the first essay, red pen in hand, and begins to read.
So which is it, Tully? No more hiding. You a murder cop, or not?
22
Back at Homicide Special, the office is dark. The sensors caught Jarsdel coming in and the lights blinked on. He searched for the Minchew murder book at his cubicle, but couldn’t find it. Not in Mailander’s or Al-Amuli’s either, then spotted it in Rall’s. He took it back to his desk and opened to Section 6, where the crime lab reports were kept. Combed through the documents—autopsy reports, DNA results from the bite on Natalie Minchew’s calf. A left finger and partial palm print in Brian Minchew’s blood left on the master bedroom door. Bloody palm print on the handle of the bread knife. But those were patent prints—the kind where the impression was transferred through a foreign substance, like paint or grease, already visible to the naked eye.
Where were the latents? The whole house had been dusted, and not a single latent print raised. Not one contact between the Creeper’s natural skin oils and a hard surface, which essentially meant he hadn’t touched anything other than the door and the knife. Strange. Why would that be? He hadn’t been shy about leaving prints before. The first five scenes, from Lauterbach to Galka—prints everywhere. Not too many at Sponholz, but he hadn’t spent much time there. He’d practically lived at those other houses, camping out in basements and attics. But he’d killed Amy
Sponholz to torment the lieutenant, or at least that was the theory. That explained the speed at which he carried out her murder. What it didn’t explain was why he’d rushed the Minchew scene. He could’ve taken his time, but he’d torn through there nearly as quickly as he had at Sponholz’s house.
Why?
Because it’s not the Creeper. Definitely not at Minchew, and probably not at Sponholz, either.
Who, then? DNA a match, fingerprints a match. A forensic odontologist had confirmed that whoever bit Natalie Minchew was the same person who’d savaged Joanne Lauterbach and chewed off her husband’s penis. It wasn’t in the realm of possibility that two separate killers roamed Los Angeles with identical teeth, DNA, and fingerprints. No two people on the whole planet shared those characteristics, not even identical twins. While their DNA might be the same, their prints were unique.
It was the Creeper. Had to be.
And yet, somehow, it isn’t.
No forced entry at Sponholz, but then they’d conveniently found a pick at the Minchew scene. A question, then a reply. No tooth marks on Amy Sponholz, then the bite on Minchew’s calf. Another question, another reply. No Creeper epithelial tissue under Amy Sponholz’s nails, plenty under Natalie Minchew’s. A third question, a third reply.
Lieutenant Edwin Darrel Sponholz, blustering into the office that day with a shiner and scratches on his face. Explanation—an atonal symphony of roof repair, birds, and oak trees.
Sponholz, who’d come up with the numerology angle, that the Creeper was some kind of occultist. Then of course he’d been the one to get the hole-punch letter, which further backed up the theory.
Okay, but how? Even if he’d somehow managed to transfer Creeper prints to some sort of surrogate rubber hand, it wouldn’t have been able to manufacture the human sweat and oils to make all those latent prints.
It doesn’t matter how, not yet. Break the alibi. No one’s bothered checking it because they’re all so certain the Creeper’s their man.
The alibi was twofold, now that he really thought about it. The lieutenant had been at the gym at PAB and had arrived home to find the place already swarming with activity. That was the first alibi. The second had to do with timing. When he showed up at the office covered in scratches, his wife had to have already been dead. But he’d done something to the body that fooled the ME into thinking she was killed much later that night.
Done what? Forensic scientists were famously difficult to fool.
Focus, Tully. One thing at a time.
The gym downstairs. He hadn’t been there himself, but had heard the place was usually packed. Keeping in top physical shape was expected of all sworn LAPD personnel. In fact, exercising was considered part of the job. And if you could prove you were injured during your workout—say you’d dropped a barbell on your foot—you were entitled to compensation.
Which is why you were supposed to sign in each time you used the facility.
Lots of officers forgot to do it, so Sponholz’s absence from the register on the night in question wouldn’t be all that damning. But if every other time he’d remembered to sign in, then his failure to do so on that occasion might provide a toehold, a place for Jarsdel to stand and begin chipping away at the rest of the lieutenant’s story.
He picked up the desk phone, realized he had no idea whom he needed to speak to, and replaced the receiver. He’d have to go down there himself.
The gym was on the basement level, and when Jarsdel arrived, there were only a few officers using the facility. He checked his phone—nearly eleven. If Sponholz really had tried squeezing in a workout during the early morning, there would’ve been hardly anyone who’d have seen him.
There was no desk like there’d be at a normal, membership-based gym. Instead, there was a small table to the right of the door, atop which sat a large, black three-ring binder. It was open, revealing that day’s sign-in sheet. Officers were to write their name, badge number, time in, and time out. When he got closer, he saw there were a couple blank spaces left at the bottom. Beside the last four names, only the time-in boxes had been filled in, but not yet the time-out boxes.
Somewhere behind him there was a grunt of exertion, followed by the impact of weights hitting the hard rubber floor. He thought of Will Haarmann, the man who, until just mere hours earlier, had without a doubt sliced his hand open. What was he now, Jarsdel wondered, now that he’d been demoted from mortal enemy? And Varma had actually wanted to fan the fire, keep the hatred going. In probably the last thing she ever wrote, she’d tried to goad him into retaliating. Remind me! That’s what she’d written. With a cutesy little exclamation point, like a text from a teenager. You could practically hear her tittering.
Jarsdel began turning pages and watched the dates scroll backward. As he did so, he wondered just how often someone came to take the pages away to archives. If that had already happened, it would be a huge headache. First he’d have to find out where they went—probably to some file drawer in Training Division—and then come up with a legitimate reason for asking to see them. And a bureaucracy being what it was, he doubted words alone would get him access. Would he have to get a warrant? Probably.
He was in August now, his fingers speeding up. The 28th, the 27th…
Come on, be there.
The 21st, the 20th…
Be there.
The 19th.
“Excuse me.”
Startled, Jarsdel nearly leapt out of the way, but he restrained himself and turned to see who’d spoken. A three-striper—a sergeant—with jowls and a silver flattop, carrying a duffel bag.
“Yes?”
“I need to get in there.” The man pointed at the binder.
“Sorry.” Jarsdel stepped aside as the sergeant flipped pages in the other direction, looking for the day’s sheet. Eventually he found it, glanced up at the wall clock, and scribbled 10:55 p.m. in the sign-out column. He made sure to give Jarsdel a frown before leaving.
Once he’d gone, Jarsdel was back at the binder, turning the pages fast. He overshot it to August 15, then went back, slowly, until he found it again.
August 19, three densely marked pages. Working backwards, the third beginning with a time at eight o’clock. The second page, a peak between six and seven, tapering off again until midafternoon, a lull, then another spike after five. The first sheet. Jarsdel moved his finger down the page, name by name.
Midnight, one, two…
E. Sponholz—14899—Time In—2:50 a.m.—Time Out—3:35 a.m.
Jarsdel exhaled. He’d been so sure it wouldn’t be there. It would’ve been such an easy thing to forget to do, if murdering your wife was on your mind.
He closed the binder and was almost to the elevator when he revisited that bit of logic. Yes, it would’ve been such an easy thing to forget to do. Unless it was the basis of your alibi, of course, then you’d be sure to remember.
He nearly ran back to the binder, opened it, began at the very first page, August 5. Names and badge numbers, line by line, tracking them with his finger. August 6, 7, 8. Nothing so far. Encouraged, he kept going, approaching the 19th. Still nothing, and then the 18th…
Yes, nothing.
After the 19th, Sponholz had been on compassionate leave. But in the two weeks between August 5 and the date of the murder, whether he’d worked out at the gym or not, Ed Sponholz never filled out the log. And Jarsdel was willing to bet if he went through the stacks of archives in Training Division, he wouldn’t see any sign-ins from the lieutenant there, either. Habits of neglect were very tough to break.
And yet, on the night of Amy’s murder, he’d made sure to sign in.
* * *
McWilliams Real Estate Group was less than ten minutes away from the Sponholz house, comprising the entire bottom floor of the Huntley Professional Building on Tampa, which shared an outdoor parking lot with Force MMA.
The moment Jarsdel pulled in, he could tell the relationship between the two businesses was frayed. Most of the parking spaces were designated with printed signs, placed at regular intervals. In urgent red on white, they declared, This ENTIRE ROW reserved for Huntley Professional clients only, 24 hours a day. NO FORCE MMA PARKING. You will be TOWED. We promise!
If the message was still unclear, the asphalt in front of each spot was stenciled with HUNTLEY ONLY. He found one quickly, and noticed several other vacant ones. On the other hand, the meager fraction of the lot serving Force MMA customers was jammed with cars, some triple parked. A group of men with flattened noses and twisted ears were taking a break outside. When they spotted Jarsdel getting out of his car, they stopped chatting and gave him what Morales would’ve called a real good mad doggin’.
Jarsdel looked behind him at the Huntley Building and was happy to see several security cameras trained on the lot. He didn’t think he’d be finding any surprises glued to his door handle today. He gave the group in front of the gym a disarming smile, made sure they saw the badge glinting on his belt, and headed for the real estate office.
The Malibu fires had turned the sky an eggshell white and made the air smell like he was always downwind from a barbecue. It had also coated the city in a film of ash. The two easiest ways to tell how bad the air was on any given day was either to run your finger along your windshield or blow your nose. The darker your mucus, the less time you should spend outdoors. Once inside the clean, cool lobby, Jarsdel sneezed, and the contents of his handkerchief worried him. He hadn’t smoked a day in his life, and dying of lung cancer would be the height of injustice.
What Waits for You Page 29