What Waits for You

by Joseph Schneider

  Bengochea’s head moved from side to side three times. A mechanical gesture. Jarsdel was reminded of a piece of clockwork.

  He was denying it? He was actually denying it? “You don’t seem to understand.” Jarsdel pointed at the ninhydrin print on the letter. “There is literally—and my usage there is correct—literally no one else in the universe with that particular pattern on their right thumb. Computer didn’t even need to think about it. Just popped right up, there were so many points of comparison. You couldn’t have left a nicer print if you’d tried.”

  No answer.

  “You know how prints are formed?” Jarsdel held up his left hand, pointed to the patterns on the pads of his fingers. “Happens when you’re an embryo, and the list of factors that influence how the friction ridges are formed is pretty astonishing. Your mom’s diet, the density of the amniotic fluid, even the length of the umbilical cord. But what gets me is a lot of it has to do with you, while you’re in there, pushing on the interior walls of the uterus. How hard you do that, and how often, that also determines what your prints look like.”

  The slow head shake again, back and forth three times.

  “Okay, what is it exactly you’re saying no to?”

  No answer.

  Jarsdel exhaled through his teeth. “That strategy isn’t gonna get you anywhere. You can bury your head in the sand, but here’s what’s gonna happen. You don’t talk to me, I go to the district attorney. She comes back with a charge of first degree murder. Several charges, actually, with special circumstances. And since you won’t give up your partner, you get to swing for the whole thing alone. Think you’re miserable now? Why, because you got yanked out of your car and some cops yelled at you? Your finite mind cannot begin to grasp what it’ll be like to bear the entire weight of this thing. Imagine the collective hatred and repulsion of every civilized human being in Los Angeles. All…directed…at you.”

  He was halfway out of his chair when Bengochea finally spoke. “I didn’t do it.”

  Jarsdel sat back down. “All right. Who did?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who wrote the letter?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why’s your print on it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Jarsdel crossed his arms. “This isn’t much of a step up from your previous approach. The ‘I don’t know’ routine runs pretty thin around here.”

  “But I really don’t!” Animation suddenly poured back into Bengochea. His eyes were pleading, but clear and focused. “Okay? I don’t know about any of this stuff. Killing people. That’s not me. Nothing like me. I ain’t a criminal.”

  “Well you are, though. You are a criminal. You have a criminal record.”

  “Hey, that credit card thing was bullshit, man. That was… It don’t even matter, you won’t believe me.”

  They passed a minute in silence before he spoke again. “Never killed anybody.”

  “Let’s change gears,” said Jarsdel. “What do you do? For a living, I mean.”

  Bengochea looked glad to be talking about something else. He shrugged. “Retail and stuff.”

  “Yeah? What kind? Clothing?”

  “Nah, I wish.”

  Jarsdel remained quiet, letting Bengochea take over the pace of the conversation. Eventually he said, “Maybe a couple months I’ll change it up. My cousin got a job like that at the mall, and he makes pretty good money.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “You know, uh, Send It Packing? On Sunset?”

  “No, sorry.”

  “Near the Arclight. Same side of the street, but a couple blocks east. The mini-mall with that liquor store. Cap’n Cork.”

  “Okay.”

  Bengochea grimaced and massaged his wrists. “Man, I think they pinched a nerve or something. Hurts.”

  “You go to school?”

  “Kinda. You know what a notary is?”

  “Sure.”

  “The guys who certify documents and stuff?”

  “I know what a notary is.”

  “My boss wanted me to take the exam on that so I could help out more at the store. Lot of people need that kinda service, and it says it in the window that we do that. When it’s just me, though, and people come in lookin’ for a notary, I have to say sorry, you gotta come back. So I been studyin’, up my value there and everything.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Yeah.”

  Jarsdel waited, but Bengochea didn’t add more. He could tell his own sangfroid wasn’t going to last much longer. What did the man hope to gain from all this hemming and hawing?

  Bengochea’s expression changed. He appeared suddenly hopeful, which was about the last thing Jarsdel would’ve predicted.

  “Hey, wait. You think that’s what might’ve happened here? Someone brought me something and I picked it up?”

  Jarsdel shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  “Because if you’d picked it up, you’d have left prints on the other side of the paper too.” To demonstrate, he held the copy of the Creeper letter between his thumb and index finger. “See? Skin on both sides. Would’ve left amino acids, contact DNA if nothing else. No, looks to me like you put the print on the letter when you mailed it, pushing it into the envelope. Exactly the kind of thing you’d overlook when you’re under stress and doing something you shouldn’t. Got frazzled, took your gloves off at some point.”

  The nascent hope refused to leave Bengochea’s eyes. “But I didn’t.”

  Jarsdel lined up his own thumb with the print on the letter. “Perpendicular to the short edge. Tip of the thumb pointing down to the words.” He placed the letter back into the glassine envelope. “If I wasn’t wearing gloves, and this was sticking out a little, I’d push it in the rest of the way with my thumb, but the rest of my fingers would be touching the envelope, which explains why their prints aren’t on the back of the letter itself.”

  “Are my prints on the envelope?” Again, that inexplicable thread of hope.

  “I don’t have that information right now.”

  “So you don’t know for sure?”

  “You have any idea how many people handle an envelope in transit? It’d be covered in prints, most of them overlapping. It’s not worth considering from an evidentiary standpoint.”

  He waited for Bengochea to abandon the straw he was grasping at, but he wasn’t ready to give up just yet.

  “Can I see it?”

  “What, the letter? Sure.”

  Bengochea took it and studied the words. “This ain’t my handwriting.”

  “It’s nobody’s handwriting. It’s disguised.”

  “I don’t even know what some of these words mean, man.”

  “Guess I’ll have to take your word for that.”

  “What’s a—”

  “Hey. Enough.” Jarsdel had reached his limit. “I’m—”

  “Looks photocopied.”

  Had Bengochea actually interrupted him? He was too amazed to say anything, and the suspect took that as a cue to continue.

  “Photocopied a bunch, I mean. No detail, everything’s a little fuzzy.” He scrutinized the thumbprint, then looked at the offending digit on his own hand. Jarsdel watched him closely. Bengochea did it again, from the print to his thumb, then once more.

  Such a simple thing a fingerprint was, and so damning. What he’d told Bengochea wasn’t the half of it. The sheer number of ingredients that went into forming them, from genetic to environmental variables, was truly astonishing.

  The Creeper hadn’t cared about his prints, had left them everywhere. Must have known even in the fog of his madness that they weren’t on file. Except at the Sponholz scene, he reminded himself. Only right-hand prints there. And the first letter, the hole-punch letter, only left-hand prints. And then
the Minchew scene, those patent prints in blood, also the left hand. On this letter, no Creeper prints. Only Bengochea’s.

  His subconscious kicked up a reel of stored footage. Ed Sponholz in the RDH conference room that day. Ed Sponholz, the walking apology, his face bruised and scratched.

  Only right-hand prints, then only left-hand prints, now none at all.

  Jarsdel closed his eyes.

  He couldn’t help it. So terrific was the fuckup, so unbelievable, that the best thing right then would be another earthquake. Something cataclysmic and final. He willed the ground to open beneath his chair, swallow him, clap shut. Erase him completely.

  He opened his eyes and stood. “Excuse me.”

  “You’re leavin’? Wait…”

  Jarsdel was outside the interview room, pulling the door shut behind him. He couldn’t bear to hear anything else from Bengochea. It hurt too deeply. And to think how gleeful he’d been when they’d thrown him to the ground and slapped the cuffs on.

  Rall saw him coming and put his palms out. “Hey, the hell you doin’?”

  “You know the place he’s talking about? Send It Packing?”

  The detective stared at him, baffled.

  “He says it’s on Sunset, next to Cap’n Cork.”

  Rall nodded. “The stop-and-rob, yeah. So?”

  “If Send It Packing doesn’t have cameras, the liquor store definitely will. Letter was postmarked yesterday, so chances are it’ll be yesterday’s footage.”

  “I want you back in there, now. Motherfucker’s about to break.” Rall’s voice was hushed but agitated. The officers around them leaned in, curious.

  “No, he isn’t. Trust me. Those cameras, that’s what counts right now. The cameras in that mini-mall lot.”

  “Why? What’re we looking for?”

  “You’ll have to see for yourself. I tell you now and you won’t believe me.” He began to move away.

  Rall seized his arm and bent in close. “You are not excused, Detective. Now get back in there and finish the interview.”

  It was like being gripped by a stone hand. “I can’t. I’ve got to go while there’s still time.”

  “I’m gonna end your career. Disciplinary hearing first thing tomorrow. Gonna have to explain to Captain Coryell why you disobeyed a direct order. Your career, over.”

  “Maybe,” Jarsdel said. “But it won’t be because I failed to catch the man who murdered Amy Sponholz.”

  The certainty with which he made the declaration gave Rall pause. His grip loosened a little. “What do you mean?”

  “The footage, sir. I’ll be on the road. After you watch it, call me.” He pulled away, leaving Rall for a moment with his hand extended, curled around nothing. The detective and the rest of the officers stared after him. He passed Barnhardt, then Haarmann and Gavin, both looking amused. Then Morales, leaning against a domestic violence awareness poster.

  His partner gave him a nod, and Jarsdel returned it.

  25

  The evening rush was over, and the freeways went from being gridlocked to merely slow. He took the 5 off Los Feliz, heading north, passing the LA Zoo and the Gene Autry museum on his left. He stayed on past the 134 interchange, and the traffic began to pick up a little once he hit Burbank.

  Beyond the Burbank airport, the road cleared, the speedometer climbing to seventy, then eighty. His phone announced in a clipped British accent that his exit was coming up in one mile.

  A tourist driving from Hollywood to Shadow Hills would have trouble believing both neighborhoods were part of the same city. Shadow Hills’s population was only a couple thousand, much of the land was given over to horse ranches and olive groves, and the bumper stickers were less NPR than NRA.

  He took Sunland and turned right, heading up toward the Verdugo Mountains. There were no streetlights out there, and he flicked on his brights, dousing them whenever a car approached from the opposite direction.

  The car climbed awhile, then dipped into black, canopied valleys. The road narrowed, trees hugging close on either side. A series of blind curves. A fawn, eyes wide, then gone, fleeing into the night.

  The land swept gently upward again and Jarsdel slowed, glancing from the road to the GPS readout on his phone. A hundred yards from the address. He pulled onto the shoulder, gravel spitting from underneath his tires. Killed the engine.

  The farmhouse was set up from the road on a hillock, and stood squat and dark against the clear moonlit sky.

  Jarsdel flicked the switch on the dome light—didn’t want it coming on when he opened the door.

  He stepped out, shoes crunching. Pushed the door closed, softly. Took a few steps. Something got spooked, scurried through the brush. Jarsdel paused. It sounded big—a possum, maybe. Were there snakes out here? Probably. He resumed walking, but each step sounded like someone popping bubble wrap. It was otherwise so quiet, he thought surely anyone would be able to hear him. The road instead. Better, practically no sound.

  Closer. A waist-high wooden fence marked the edge of the property, then a driveway came into view. It curved up toward the farmhouse, perhaps twenty yards. To the left was a corral, empty. Behind the corral, further up the hill, a barn. The doors were closed, but light shone around their edges. A flicker of movement, a shadow. Someone inside.

  His phone vibrated and he snatched it off his belt. It was Rall. Jarsdel answered, voice low but not whispered. “You watch it yet?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  “Hat and sunglasses. It’s not a hundred percent.”

  “But you recognized him anyway, right?”

  Rall blew out a breath. “Yeah. But it don’t prove nothin’. Just that the LT was there, not what he did inside.”

  “Was he holding anything when he went in?”

  “A manila envelope. But it’s not enough.”

  “No,” Jarsdel agreed.

  “Where are you?”

  He ignored the question. “You need to get a warrant on his house. The video should be able to do that much.”

  “Why? What’re we gonna find?”

  Jarsdel told him, then hung up before Rall could ask more questions. He silenced the ringer and began making his way up the driveway. There was a tube gate blocking the way, but the chain and padlock that would’ve secured it lay in the dirt nearby. Jarsdel pushed it open, froze at the sound it made, a whine followed by a deep, rattling groan.

  Stupid.

  Eyes on the barn doors, a slow count to ten. When no one came out, he slipped through and eased the gate closed again, lifting up to take the weight off the hinges.

  The lieutenant’s car sat at the top of the driveway just a few feet from the farmhouse. The paving stopped there, but a dirt path hooked off toward the barn. Jarsdel drew his weapon, holding it at his side as he crept along.

  His foot turned on a stone and he stumbled, hot pain in his ankle. Reflexively, he reached for his Maglite, but stopped himself before he turned it on. He waited, another slow count to ten, making sure he hadn’t been detected.

  The path steepened as he neared the barn. At first he thought he was going to have to get on his hands and knees to get up there, then noticed a short flight of wide wooden steps jammed into the hillside. He climbed them easily, but made sure to keep his finger on the trigger guard in case he slipped again. Blowing a hole in his foot probably wasn’t going to win the day.

  You’re under arrest—BANG!

  Bit his cheek to keep down a manic bray of laughter. Strange how the mind behaved under stress.

  Windows too high up, no way to see inside except through the thin space where the two doors met. He switched his gun to a two-handed tactical grip and moved forward toward the sliver of light. Ten feet, body hugging the building. Closer, ready if Sponholz suddenly came bursting out. He paused, straining for any sound. Nothing. Forward again.
A faint clatter somewhere inside. Finally at the doors, but the angle was off. He’d have to stand right in front if he wanted to look between them, which would make him a sitting duck if Sponholz saw him and decided to break leather.

  Inside, the sound of running water, the impact of heavy spray inside a big, hollow container. Jarsdel decided to risk it. He slipped in front of the doors and looked in.

  Harsh fluorescent work lights illuminated the barn. Bales of hay stacked high, a pitchfork with a badly bent tine leaning out of a blue trash can. Tools scattered haphazardly on the dirt floor. An equine first-aid kit, open, contents strewn on a plastic tabletop. Bottles of Betadine and rubbing alcohol, an oral syringe, stethoscope, tweezers, a turkey baster, a book—Dr. Kellon’s Guide to First Aid for Horses, electrolyte paste, lavender oil. Medications he didn’t recognize—AperEze, Vetericyn, ichthammol, nitrofurazone.

  A box stall to the right, slatted door ajar and a hose snaking in. A figure popped into view, his back to Jarsdel. More spraying sounds, then the man ducked down.

  He gripped the hasp of the left barn door and pulled. It opened on well-greased hinges. The smell of bleach, strong in the air. As he stepped inside, Jarsdel heard scrubbing, then liquid being poured from a container. The scrubbing resumed, and he approached the stall.

  It wasn’t very big, perhaps ten by twelve feet. Ed Sponholz, unarmed, stood over a large wooden tack box, scrubbing the sides with a dish brush. A bottle of Clorox sat uncapped nearby. Jarsdel lowered the gun to his side, but didn’t holster it.

  “‘Your name points to calamity. It fits you well.’”

  Sponholz stopped what he was doing, looked at Jarsdel, smiled, then went back to scrubbing. “What’re you doing all the way out here?”