Devil's Pasture

by Richard Bannister

  A few weeks earlier, while I was out on medical leave, he'd had his own case for the first time, and it hadn't gone well. While interviewing a mugging victim, he'd arrested the woman on an outstanding warrant for burglary, when it was someone with a similar name who Sacramento police were after. He ignored that Linda Garcia did not look at all like the mug shot of the wanted woman when even a cursory comparison of her to the photo would have tipped him off. She was 9 inches taller and 40 pounds heavier. He also overlooked the lack of a fingerprint match.

  Garcia was telling everyone who would listen there was a mistake, but she spent four days in the local jail. It wasn't until she was transferred to Sacramento that the error was discovered. Anyone else making the same mistake so soon into their tenure as a detective would have been put on probation. But Prentiss was Townsend's golden boy, and he escaped with a tongue lashing. The poor woman was now suing the department for unspecified damages after the wrongful arrest caused her to miss an important business meeting.

  I left Prentiss at the apartments, asking him to hunt down surveillance video and to canvass for witnesses with officers Micky and Minnie. Although, I knew it was unlikely he'd find any footage—all the cameras I'd seen were vandalized.

  Before I reached my car, my phone rang. Seeing a familiar number, I answered.

  "Megan, this is Mrs. Fisher from Belleview Nursing Home," the woman said. "I'm calling about your mother."

  "Is she alright?" I always felt fearful when anyone called from Mom's nursing home. My father's health deteriorated after Beth's accusations, and he died while I was in Afghanistan. When I moved back to Stockbridge from LA, my Mom, who had been estranged from Dad, came to live with me. She already had a diagnosis, and three years later, needed more care than I could give her. We'd agreed she would be better off in a nursing home. In the two years she'd been there, her diagnosis had progressed to moderately severe Alzheimer's, which meant she needed help with many of the daily tasks the rest of us perform without thinking. The severity of her impairment fluctuated from day to day, along with her ability to remember who I was.

  "Your mother is well. I'm not calling about her health," Mrs. Fisher continued. "A nurse told me this morning that your mother said she hasn't seen you in a while."

  "You must understand that I'm a detective. I work long hours and have an irregular schedule. If my mother were more coherent, she would understand that I have work responsibilities. She doesn't even recognize me when I see her."

  "I'm looking at the visitor's log, and it's been over three months since we saw you."

  "I will try to visit her soon," I said, struggling to sound positive.

  I disconnected, hoping a search of Beth's home, and a visit to The Examiner would give me some idea of what she was working on, and with whom she was meeting.

  I had almost reached my 4Runner when I heard my name called from behind me. Turning, I saw a skinny blond woman holding a microphone trotting my way. Trailing her was a man shouldering a Four Live News camera.

  "Detective Megan Riley, Kelly Walsh, Channel Four News. Do you know the name of the deceased?" She shoved the microphone under my chin.

  "We have a tentative name, but we're not releasing it until after a formal identification, and relatives have been notified," I lied. "I can tell you that the victim is a woman in her thirties." Walsh was a regular on their morning show, and it was a fifty-minute drive from Sacramento. Someone had tipped her off.

  "She's a reporter for The Examiner, right? What was the cause of death?"

  "It's early days. We'll have to wait for the autopsy for that kind of information."

  "Was it drug-related?"

  "It's too early to say for sure, but it appears unlikely."

  Walsh looked disappointed. "What are the police doing to combat the rising tide of violence in the area?"

  "We've stepped up patrols." I turned to the camera. "We need to hear from anyone who might have seen what happened here around seven 'o'clock this morning."

  "Detective Riley. You were at the shootout at the Highdale Bank only four months ago." Walsh mugged into the camera. "When a detective and bank robber died. Do you blame yourself in any way for what happened?"

  It was all I could do to remain composed. "The only blame rests with the bank robbers, Dirk, and Kidd Hildegard."

  "Kidd Hildegard, the robber you gunned down. Are you going to be gunning for whoever killed the reporter today?"

  "I'm not gunning for anyone. Kidd Hildegard was shot after he injured me and killed Detective Kennedy. My actions were ruled lawful. In fact, I received a commendation. I have no further comment."

  As I got into my 4Runner 4x4, I heard Walsh say, "you heard it here first. Another murder has the Stockbridge police stumped. Kelly Walsh, reporting live at the Brockway Apartments." She listened to her earpiece for a few moments, then said to the cameraman, "We're clear—it's a wrap."

  CHAPTER 2

  ANANDA WILLIS MISSED HER HOME in Mumbai, even though she was only six years old when her parents brought her to California. But more than anything, she missed her father. As the son of an English transplant, T. J. Willis had been a successful businessman who had provided well for his family in their home country. Ananda lived in a 5000 square foot home with a swimming pool, maids and kitchen staff. She enjoyed the freedom to roam a sizable estate.

  On moving to America, T. J. set up an import-export business in Los Angeles, trading in elegant furnishings and expensive rugs, which he brought over from India. But after the economy turned down, he was left with a vast inventory which he ended up selling for pennies on the dollar, to pay off his debts. He died eighteen months later after a long illness, leaving Ananda and her mother in near poverty. Riya took to waitressing and cleaning houses to put her daughter through school and into nursing college before she passed away aged 53.

  Hardly a day went by without Ananda longing for the life she imagined her family could have had if they had not moved to America.

  Ananda had been passing the time looking out of the window of her apartment. She caught sight of the reporter woman, striding down the path between the brown grass and the dying shrubs, seemingly heading her way. Knowing Beth liked a cup of coffee, Ananda put the kettle on. She found some cookies, which didn't look too stale, and arranged them on a plate. But when she looked out again, wondering what happened to her guest, uniformed police were everywhere. Pressing her face to the glass, she could see people in white coveralls bent over something she couldn't quite make out in the bushes.

  I knew it, she thought. Another mugging and Beth was coming to cover it. But after watching the goings-on outside for over an hour and seeing two men loading what appeared to be a woman into a body bag, her stomach was in knots over the possibility that it could be Beth. Ananda scarcely knew the reporter as she'd only visited twice, but the idea that Beth could have been killed on her doorstep struck home more than anything she saw in the news.

  A loud, impatient knock at her front door broke her reverie. When she opened it, she was surprised to see Scott Prentiss holding out a police badge.

  "I'm speaking to people who may be witnesses to a crime committed near this building earlier today," Prentiss managed.

  "Oh, my God. You never told me you were a cop." Ananda had met him the previous weekend at the Bluebird Cafe. They had talked over coffee for an hour and agreed to go on a date at a local club on the coming Friday.

  "I'm a detective, actually. If I mention it too early in a relationship, it can put people off." Prentiss couldn't help but stare at Ananda's dusky complexion, and rounded curves shown off by her tight T-shirt and leggings.

  "Come in. Excuse the mess. Is this about the poor woman outside?"

  "I just need to ask you if you saw anything unusual this morning. Outside . . . at the front . . . that is." Prentiss stammered, as he stepped over to the window and looked out. He was losing the battle to remain professional, as his focus switched to watching Ananda's long black ponytail swish from side to
side as she moved her head.

  "I didn't look out until after the police arrived. What happened? Is somebody hurt?"

  "A woman, thirty-something, lost her life. We don't know anything more at this point. We're looking for anyone who may have seen her or her attacker earlier today."

  "I just got in from my shift at the hospital and didn't see anything. Do you know who it is?

  "I shouldn't say, but we think it's Beth Gervais, the reporter." Prentiss scanned the tiny apartment which looked cramped even though it was sparsely furnished. A laptop was open on an aging desk under the window, and folded laundry was piled on a kitchen table and chairs. Had he wanted to sit, his only choice would have been the corner of a futon sofa.

  "Oh, my God. How awful." Ananda felt sick to her stomach.

  "Do you know her?"

  "Only from reading her column in the local rag. I wonder what she was doing here."

  "It's something we're trying to ascertain. I didn't know you had children." Through the open bedroom door, he'd noticed Ananda's skimpy pajamas on an unmade bed and next to it a child's bed, and a hamper of toys.

  "Not anymore." She followed his eyes. "I had a little girl, but she died."

  "I am so sorry. What happened?"

  "She got sick with leukemia. It started three years ago this month. Asha would have been nine if she'd lived. The doctors said they could treat her. Children recover from leukemia all the time, but Asha went downhill quickly and died four weeks later. Dr. Walker said he'd never seen a child go so fast. I felt devastated and hopeless for ages, but I found a good support group for mothers who've lost children. It's something I don't often tell friends, Mr. Detective. I can't bear people pitying me."

  "Is Asha's father still around?"

  "He ran off with another woman. We were never married, so it was good riddance, you know. He didn't treat me very well at all, but I didn't find out what he was like until we moved in together. I don't want to say anything more about him, so please don't ask. Just know he's long gone."

  "It's fortunate you didn't see anything today. If you were a witness, it wouldn't be right going out with you."

  "We can still have the date on Friday, even though I know you're a cop?" Ananda looked plaintively into his eyes.

  "Of course. I'm looking forward to it. I was thinking of Dirty Mick's Tavern, the food's great, and they have live music on Fridays and Saturdays." Prentiss was getting a reaction from just looking at Ananda's shapely figure.

  "Do you have any skeletons in the closet to declare?"

  "There's currently no one else. I broke up with a long-time girlfriend when I moved here from Oregon. This is my first job out of college. Back home, no one was hiring. I thought a long-distance relationship with her would work, but she found someone else. I think my being a cop was a factor too."

  "I've worked at Abbey Mount since I left nursing school." Ananda fixed her eyes on him. "I was happier when I worked on the wards than the ER. It's okay, I suppose. This week, I'm on nights, but they sometimes call me in earlier, which can wreck one's social life. The nights can drag. The ER must be open 24/7, but this is not LA where you get a steady stream of gunshot victims. Doctor Christiansen, the Head of the ER, doesn't like to catch you standing around. The younger doctors are easier going. I'm off on Friday, then I'm on days for a while. Until they change their minds."

  "I have some competition?"

  "Hospital doctors just want to screw nurses and dump them. But yes, you have competition if it keeps you in line." She stood on tiptoes and kissed him passionately. "Now be off with you, Mr. Detective. Go and catch some bad guys. I've got to get some sleep, so I'll stay awake at work tonight."

  She patted him on his butt as he left. Ananda found Scott Prentiss attractive enough and liked that he was a detective. He was boyfriend material—for now. She wondered if his lack of maturity would be his undoing, or something she didn't yet know about him. Time would tell.

  CHAPTER 3

  MAPLE STREET WAS LINED with willows and oaks hanging low over the roadway. Here you could find every style of Craftsman house with their low-pitched roofs, overhanging eaves and pastel colors. In some places, cars and delivery trucks were parked on both sides of the road leaving only a single lane for through traffic, which fortunately was light at this time of day. I had followed the crime scene unit to Beth's modest bungalow-style home, done in yellow with white trim. We found parking spaces in front. The house was not much bigger than my rental, but I'd learned that Beth owned hers outright.

  On a reporter's salary?

  The front garden was neglected: the lawn was mostly brown, and the tall shrubs along the front were sun-scorched and wilting.

  Standing beside the van with Chris Andrews and two of his techs, Kramer and Mason, I pulled on a white coverall jumpsuit. We climbed four steps to the front porch. Andrews handed me paper overshoes and hammered on the front door, a big oak affair with peeling varnish. I'd worked closely with him many times over the last five years and knew I could rely on him to give me all the help in his power.

  When no one answered, Andrews went to work on the lock.

  I peered through a window into what I guessed was the living room. "Someone has beaten us to it," I exclaimed. "The inside of the house looks like a tornado has passed through. We may be too late."

  "Well, they didn't come through this door," Andrews replied. "It's locked with a deadbolt you can't access from the outside. There must be an easier way in than climbing through a window. Let's check around the back."

  Our feet crunched on the gravel pathway along the side of the house with enough noise to warn any intruder who might still be there. A small concrete patio at the rear of the house held a rusting tubular metal dining set. Flagstones lined with more neglected shrubs led to the rear fence of the property. About twenty feet down the path, there was what looked like a pile of wet fur. As I approached, I saw blood pooling on the stone and an animal's head with an ugly wound.

  Then I saw a tail. "Crap. It's a dog. A German Shepherd. Someone's cut off its head."

  "Bag it up, Kramer," Andrews ordered. "There may be DNA on the claws. Mason, go string some tape across the front of the property."

  I did nothing to hide the anger boiling within me, as I walked back to the patio.

  The back door was ajar but hadn't been forced. Did the intruder have a key, or had someone let him in?

  I unholstered my Sig Sauer before moving into a utility room. The cupboards on the wall were open, and cleaning products pulled from the shelves covered a washer and a dryer. The scene was similar in the kitchen and living room. All the drawers had been removed and tossed aside. A heap of books, empty ring binders, photographs, and bric-a-brac littered the floor. The sofa and a pair of matching faux leather chairs were slit open, and their stuffing pulled out.

  With my weapon still drawn, I entered a rear bedroom done out as a study, with an empty bookshelf, a table, and an office chair. I suspected that anything which might shed light on Beth's murder was long gone, including her laptop—the table held only a charger and an external monitor. Whoever had ransacked the house probably knew what they were looking for. It strengthened my belief that Beth was murdered to hide something she had discovered. It could involve a physical object or may just be information.

  "Oh, Jeez. I wasn't expecting that." Andrews was staring through a splintered door hanging drunkenly on its hinges.

  As I picked my way through the debris toward him, a familiar metallic odor assailed my nostrils. Andrews pulled out his phone, and I heard him ask to speak to Cliff Jackson, the Medical Examiner. Through the ruined doorway, I saw a woman in her thirties, half-lying on a double bed. One leg hung over the side, and her arms were splayed out like a rag doll. Purple-streaked blond hair almost hid her eyes, and rust colored blood covered her pajamas and legs. Like Beth, her throat had been slit, but this woman had a knife wound through her shorts and into her lower abdomen.

  The drawers from the nightstands and dre
sser were upended, and sweaters, slacks, and underwear covered the floor. From the indentations in the mattress and pillows, two people had spent the previous night in the bed, which might mean something or nothing. It was the only bed in the house, so I was leaning toward Beth being this woman's sleeping partner. This victim could have just been unlucky—in the wrong place at the wrong time. We needed to identify her, and with whom she'd been in contact before I could discount the killer coming here specifically to murder her.

  After searching the room for an hour, we had found nothing useful beyond bloody footprints in a trail of blood leading back to the kitchen. The impressions might be helpful in the future to confirm the identity of the killer, but if he were any good, he would have burned the contaminated shoes.

  "This guy was careful. It's not looking good, for identifying him forensically." Andrews' eyes looked tired.

  "Even the most careful thieves and murderers slip up somewhere," I countered. "One tiny piece of DNA, or a fingerprint and we'll have him." Our techs were habitually pessimistic at the outset of cases, only to pull a rabbit out of the hat later. I had to think that lowered expectations took the pressure off them. But I felt less confident about quickly finding Beth's killer than before I walked into the house.

  Andrews took me back to the bedroom and pointed at the body. "See the way the blood radiates down her legs from the knife wound in her abdomen and the quantity of it. Now, look at the bloody footprints between here and the stove. I'd say she was in the kitchen when the perp came through the back door. Maybe she heard a commotion from the dog out back and was on her way to investigate. Our guy came in and stabbed her in the abdomen. The ME can tell us for sure, but I don't think the wound would have killed her outright. She ran to the bedroom and locked the door or tried to block it with the tallboy, leaving the trail of blood on the carpet. He broke down the door, and attacked her again, slitting her throat where we found her on the bed. Then he searched the place for who knows what. The blood was under the items tossed to the floor, which is why we missed seeing it." He paused for a moment. "It may be the only useful piece of evidence here."