The Samaritan

by Cross, Mason

  “Offering assistance at a breakdown?”

  “Yeah. And also the assumption that there was enough of a gap between the breakdown and the abduction for her to call somebody.”

  “Okay, but since we don’t have . . .”

  “She didn’t call Triple A, and she didn’t call any of her friends. So unless her cell was also out of charge, she must have called somebody.”

  I waited for a second and Allen caught up. “Like her regular garage. If it was open.”

  I nodded. “Exactly. Like I said, it might be nothing, but it’s worth a look. Given the resources at your disposal, do you think . . . ?”

  “ . . . that we can track down her garage using the vehicle?” Allen asked. “Sure, but it’d be quicker just to take a look at her credit card statements for the last year. If she’s taken her car in for a service or a vehicle inspection recently, we can get the address.”

  “Worth a look.”

  Allen got up. “I’ll be right back.” She turned back halfway to the door and opened her mouth to issue some kind of warning.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I won’t go anywhere. I’ll take a look at the rest of this while you’re away.”

  Allen departed and the door closed with a click. I looked back down at the iPad and cycled through the victim photographs again. Morrow, Burnett, Boden. The three of them had enough physical attributes in common to show this series of killings conformed to a strict type. And that made it unusual in the context of the other killings nationwide. The FBI briefing Allen had been sent by the liaison was saved in a separate folder. I opened it up and found it was short and to the point: a relatively high-level summary, listing open and unsolved homicides and missing persons investigations in multiple states that might be tied to the Samaritan. In all, they’d listed sixty-three cases across eleven states: a one-man epidemic, and one that had gone unnoticed until now. The two North Carolina cases I’d found were included, too, but out of chronological sequence at the end of the document, which suggested they were recent additions. The dates would make them the earliest link in the chain. I had good reason to believe Sergeant Willis Peterson was patient zero in this particular epidemic.

  Just going by the summary details, it was clear Crozier had been very careful. Many of the murders were not officially murders at all, but missing persons cases where foul play was strongly suspected. Even if the FBI was correct in tying only half of these cases to the Samaritan, it meant bodies were rotting undiscovered in shallow graves from sea to shining sea. In the cases where the bodies had been found, it tended to be because the killer had made no attempt to conceal them—leaving them in their homes or places of business, or in secluded outdoor areas. The precise cause of death varied, and I wondered if this was as much to do with the urge to experiment as the practicality of avoiding detection. Perhaps the variety in the victim profile was the same—killing two birds with one stone.

  But Los Angeles was different, so far. Three young women, all Caucasian, all brunettes. Abducted in the same way, tortured and killed in the same way. I didn’t doubt that Crozier was behind these killings, but I wondered if the new consistency meant anything.

  I sat back in the chair and wondered how long it would take Allen to confirm whether the lead with Morrow’s garage was going to pan out. I thought about what she’d said about the tow truck guy they’d ruled out. After running over it again in my head, I decided she was wrong about one thing. She’d said investigating the tow truck driver had been a no-brainer, because “how else” could he be targeting these women?

  I thought back to what she’d said about the gas station and the shadow that looked like somebody trying to get in the car. I knew there was another way.

  44

  Damn it, Allen.

  Not for the first time, Mazzucco felt like putting in a request to Lawrence for a new partner. He couldn’t shake the frustration as he drove to the West LA station on Butler Avenue. As it happened, his old station before he made detective. He’d spent the past couple of hours confirming a suspicion, but he’d been thinking a lot about his partner, too.

  Allen. He knew what she was going to do. Knew she was going to go ahead and bring Blake into the fold despite his warnings. As soon as they’d confirmed that the guy really did have information they could use, that was all she cared about. And sure, Blake presented an intriguing opportunity that had appeared out of nowhere, but that was exactly why they needed to approach the man with caution—a word Mazzucco was beginning to suspect was not in Jessica Allen’s vocabulary. He’d known from the look in her eyes the whole time they were talking in the car that she was going to call Blake. He almost didn’t think she could help it: cutting any corners she had to in order to make progress faster. She’d been like this the whole time he’d known her, and by all accounts, for a long time before that. The two of them had never explicitly addressed the rumors, and up until now Mazzucco had liked that just fine. As far as he—if not all of his fellow detectives—was concerned, Allen was a blank page from her first day in the division. Why, then, was she so hell-bent on spilling black ink all over that blank page?

  Mazzucco was almost certain that she’d use the time he was over in West to talk to Blake and then present it to him as a fait accompli. So why had he made the trip, then? Federmeyer was a loose end. A loose end that needed tying, but one that could wait. Had he wanted this? Wanted Allen to make the call, but do it alone, so that he could duck the responsibility? He put it out of his mind as he approached the two-story building that was his destination. Such questions were impossible to answer, and dwelling on them was unproductive.

  He buzzed at the gate, then drove in and parked. As luck would have it, the man he wanted to speak to was on the front desk. Federmeyer looked up as Mazzucco walked through the glass entrance doors to the precinct. His eyes registered a split second of surprise, but he covered it nicely with a friendly grin.

  “Mazzucco,” he yelled out. “What brings a big shot like you back down here? Didn’t figure we’d see you again once you made detective. Caught the boogeyman yet?”

  Mazzucco shrugged noncommittally. “I can always find a reason to drop by the old place.” He did have a reason; two of them, in fact. He decided to go for the noncontentious one first, otherwise he might not get an answer to either question.

  “I wanted to check a couple of things with you. About the dump site.”

  “Shoot,” the other man said immediately. “Although, you’ll know better than me. Us guys get the glamour job—perimeter security. You know that.”

  Mazzucco wondered if that was a tell, or simply an innocent comment. Either way, he didn’t comment.

  “How you getting on with catching the Bad Samaritan, anyway?” Federmeyer asked. “I see the feds stuck their noses in.”

  “It’s not so bad,” Mazzucco said. “They get the headache of a few dozen cold cases across the country; we get to focus on the recent ones. All in all, I’d say I’m grateful for the help.”

  Federmeyer looked a little abashed, as though he couldn’t understand why Mazzucco would shy away from a little Bureau-bashing. “Anyway,” he said, the smile still in place, but the tone a little colder. “What can I do you for, Detective?”

  “Like I said, a couple of things I wanted to check. The kind of things a guy on the scene would probably notice. Like, did you see any suspicious vehicles around the area? I know we had the media and the paps and the looky-loos, but anything out of the ordinary? The same vehicle more than once, maybe.”

  Federmeyer shrugged and shook his head. “Not that I saw. Not that any of my guys saw; otherwise I’d know about it. One of the vics’ dads showed up a couple of times, but he talked to us direct.”

  “Richard Boden?”

  “That’s right, Boden. Turns out he used to be on the job. San Diego police. Decent guy, you know what I mean? Wish we could’ve helped him.”

  “You happen to notice a dark blue Chevy Malibu at any point? Or anybody else speaking to B
oden?”

  Federmeyer took his time, his expression telegraphing how deeply he was thinking. He was making a lot of effort to appear open and helpful. Too much effort. “Can’t help you. A couple of the paps got in close for pictures the first time he visited, but he chewed them out good. They kept their distance after that.”

  “Okay,” Mazzucco said. “Let’s back up a second. You said Boden spoke to you, and you wanted to help him.”

  Federmeyer’s eyes betrayed his suspicion immediately. “That’s right. That’s what I told you.”

  “Anybody else approach you? Anybody else you wanted to help?”

  A pause. “What’s this about, Detective?”

  Mazzucco looked left, then right. A few cops milling around, going to the coffee machine. A couple of grim-faced civilians sitting in plastic chairs near the door. No one within earshot. He leaned forward, putting both hands on the desk.

  “I know it was you, Federmeyer. Ragged wound patterns. You knew we were withholding that, and you sold it to Jennifer Quan at K-ABC.”

  “That bitch,” Federmeyer hissed under his breath. “What happened to protecting your sources?”

  “What happened to serious professional misconduct, Federmeyer? That information could compromise this whole investigation.”

  Federmeyer’s tone turned on a dime. “Come on, Mazzucco. We go way back. This ain’t no big deal.”

  “Way back,” he repeated. “You never liked me. And I happen to think leaking restricted information to the press, information that could compromise a homicide investigation, is a very big deal.”

  “Come on, Mazzucco.”

  “Detective Mazzucco. Yeah, it is a big deal when you decide to fuck with my case.” He paused, looked at the other man to let him know he was serious. “I’m reporting it to Bannerman.”

  He turned to leave and Federmeyer yelled after him, “Why don’t you get your partner to frame somebody for it, if you’re having trouble nailing a suspect?”

  Mazzucco froze in his tracks. He turned and walked slowly back toward Federmeyer. Federmeyer pulled himself up to his full height, sticking his chin out. Mazzucco eyeballed him for a good twenty seconds. Long enough for the background chatter to drop away completely as everyone turned their attention to the confrontation at the front desk.

  “Just so you know, Lieutenant,” Mazzucco said, “Quan didn’t give you up. You did that yourself, you stupid bastard. She came out with all the details about the wounds and the nickname from the same source. I knew she got the idea about calling him the Samaritan from you, but I needed you to confirm the rest of it. I guess you’d call it detective work, huh?”

  Mazzucco didn’t wait for a response. He turned and walked out, banging the door open on his way. As he approached his car, his phone buzzed with a text message. It was from Allen.

  Meet us at Washington and Crenshaw 30 mins

  Meet us. Great.

  Damn it, Allen.

  45

  I didn’t have to wait long for Allen to come up with an address. Rachel Morrow had used the same garage for her Honda Civic on three occasions in the past fourteen months. They offered a tow service; it was within range of Morrow’s likely route home on the night she disappeared, and they were open until midnight on weeknights. All three boxes checked.

  We thought about calling ahead and decided against it. Allen said she liked to drop in on people unannounced. It caught people off guard, an advantage any way you looked at it: whether someone was guilty or innocent, it was best not to give them too much time to think, to develop elaborate answers to your questions. I agreed with the approach.

  It took forty minutes to make the trip, with me following Allen’s Ford all the way. The infuriating stop-start rhythm of the traffic burned time, but made it very easy not to lose her. I thought more about Allen as I watched the back of her head and her eyes occasionally glancing back at me in her mirror. Before we’d left, she had asked a couple more questions about me and my background, which I deflected without too much trouble. I was pleasantly surprised by her lack of curiosity. I decided that once she’d confirmed my credentials, she wasn’t too interested in anything else for the moment. From our brief meeting the previous day on the roof of the parking lot, I wasn’t so sure her partner would be as flexible.

  Detective Mazzucco was waiting for us when we reached the garage, his gray Ford parked curbside with the window rolled down. He spotted us immediately, and I saw him nod to himself in grim confirmation as he saw my car. He got out as Allen parked nose to tail with him. I parked behind Allen’s car and decided not to offer my hand as we approached Mazzucco. He stood with his arms folded, glancing at me and then shooting Allen a look that I knew meant, We’ll talk later.

  “How did your errand go?” Allen asked, making no reference to the fact I was there.

  “Pretty much as expected. I’ll tell you about it later. You want to tell me why we’re here?”

  Allen glanced at the front of the garage a little way down the street. A red, white, and blue sign emblazoned with Patriot Auto Repairs. “Rachel Morrow used this garage. We think she might have called them on the night she disappeared.”

  The garage sprawled over a wide area. There were several bays, most of them with the doors rolled down at this time in the evening. There were signs everywhere advertising servicing and bodywork and the fact that they offered a tow service. There was a small office appended to the far end of the line of auto-repair berths. They approached it, and Mazzucco pushed the glass door inward, holding it open for me and Allen. The desk was unmanned as I entered. An electronic chime had activated as the door was pushed open, and a minute later a large bald guy with glasses and wearing blue bib-and-brace overalls appeared from the doorway behind the desk. He made us immediately: three people wearing suits and purposeful expressions.

  “What can I do for you, officers?” he asked. He was wary, but making an effort to sound relaxed.

  Mazzucco produced his badge and introduced himself and Allen. He didn’t refer to me at all, and the guy didn’t ask.

  “Are you the manager?” he asked, once the man had waved their ID away.

  “That’s right. Anthony Letta.”

  “Mr. Letta, were you working here on the night of April tenth? It was a Friday.”

  He thought for a second and nodded. “My day off is Friday. Well, that’s when it’s supposed to be. I can’t tell you how often—”

  Mazzucco cut him off. “We’re interested in any records for that night. Say between ten and midnight. Specifically, did anybody call for a tow? Maybe they broke down and were stranded.”

  Letta shrugged. “It’s a few days back. I’d need to check the computer.”

  Allen smiled. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  Letta tapped his mouse to cancel the screensaver, scratched his chin while he thought for a moment, and then started hitting the keys. He went slowly—hunting and pecking for letters, his brow occasionally creasing as his chubby fingers hit the wrong key and he had to go looking for backspace. I watched Allen and Mazzucco as he worked. Allen kept glancing at her partner, trying to catch his eye, but he kept his own gaze studiously on Letta’s trials with the computer. I thought about making some sort of comment to break the uneasy silence but quickly decided against it.

  What seemed like a couple of hours later, Letta had a result. “Okay. April tenth?”

  Allen nodded. “Between ten and midnight.” She wasn’t giving too much detail because she didn’t have to. She didn’t want to lead him to any conclusions or speculations. Just the facts.

  “Lemme see . . . Yeah, we had a tow on the tenth. That was what you were interested in, right? Oh, wait a second . . .” He paused and squinted at the screen over his glasses. “No, we didn’t. We got a call for a tow around ten forty-five. My guy went out and there was no sign of the customer.”

  “What was the street?” Allen asked, her voice sounding neutral.

  He squinted at the screen again. “Mulholland Drive.�
�

  Allen and Mazzucco exchanged a glance, and then she looked back at me, excitement in her eyes.

  Letta didn’t notice. As far as he was concerned, he’d drawn a blank for us. “It happens. Customer calls up for a tow; then they realize they’ve just run out of gas, or the car starts up again and they skedaddle, don’t even bother calling us.” He shook his head.

  Allen put a hand on top of the computer screen. “Mr. Letta, did the call come in from one of your regular customers?”

  He looked confused. “I’d have to check the—”

  “What was the name of the customer?”

  He glanced at the screen. “Morrow.”

  Allen nodded. “Thank you. Now, would you be able to point us in the direction of the employee who drove the truck?”

  The three of us braced ourselves for Letta to declare that he needed to engage with the computer once again, but he smiled and shook his head. “That’s easy. The bum called in sick today, though, so you’ll have to visit him at home.”

  46

  I know from experience that some managers and business owners are resistant to giving out the home addresses of employees, even to legitimate law enforcement officers. Letta gave us no such problems. On the contrary, he was happy to turn over everything he had on the driver of the tow truck on the night Morrow had vanished. Tomasz Gryski was an employee he was planning to get rid of anyway. He was constantly late, took too long on callouts, and had an attitude in the bargain. Letta had no idea why we were interested in Gryski and couldn’t care less. As far as he was concerned, it was a bonus if it was something that would hasten his departure from the company.

  “Gryski,” Allen repeated, checking the spelling twice as she noted the details. “Sounds Polish.”

  “I guess,” Letta said, as though it had just occurred to him. “He doesn’t have an accent or anything.”

  “What does he look like?” I asked. Mazzucco shot me a hard look but didn’t say anything.