Devil's Pasture

by Richard Bannister

  Challenging Townsend when he started in on his wild seat-of-the-pants theories was an exercise in futility. Only when you had irrefutable evidence could you try to dispute him. I knew he regarded me as a threat. My very existence there challenged his status quo—one in which cops were bulked up white males with an excess of testosterone. Don't get me wrong I'm no rabid feminist, but I do believe fairness in the workplace is a fundamental right.

  I suppose I paid lip service to those members of the public who saw the world like Townsend. On duty, I wore my naturally curly shoulder-length hair tied up in a bun, and I don't wear makeup. Still, my mixed-race olive skin makes many men treat me as a novelty, and not in a positive way. Even though this is California where my parents moved to in 1980, looking for a place where interracial marriage was accepted.

  "Ashley Logan was twelve weeks pregnant," I added, hoping to change the direction of the conversation.

  "She liked boys and girls? That's doubly messed up. You need to be looking at the pervert who's the child's father."

  Jackie Orvar looked as if she wanted to shrink away and hide. She was only a year out of college, and I didn't like the thought of Townsend coloring her view of the force.

  It would be some time before we'd have the fetus' DNA results. But the Baker kid was my favorite candidate for father. He was already at the top of my list for a visit. I was usually able to let the lieutenant's comments blow by me. But after his ignorant remarks, coupled with my withdrawal from the medication, anger welled up inside me. I kept my cool and said:

  "I plan to interview him next."

  "I had reservations about you coming back to work so soon," he said. "I'm going to give you some rope, for now, Detective, but it won't last unless I see some quick results."

  My composure snapped like glass. I needed to get out of the station fast and put some distance between the Neanderthal and me. Before Jackie or anyone else mentioned my friendship with Beth and gave Townsend another excuse to rail against me or take me off the case.

  CHAPTER 11

  I DROVE AWAY FROM the station on autopilot without a destination in mind. A wave of fiery white anger surged through me. Townsend's manipulative lies were getting worse. I had a feeling there was a hidden agenda behind his berating and humiliating people. Pumping up the radio volume, I listened to Freddy Mercury singing 'We Are the Champions.' When I finally focused my attention on where I was going, my 4Runner was pulling into the parking lot of a single-story professional building. I hadn't seen Dr. Kate Raymond since she signed me back to active duty two months earlier—mostly due to the trouble I had warming to shrinks.

  The piped music in the shared waiting area played to an empty room. Doctor Kate's office door was ajar, and I could see her packing her briefcase to leave. I walked in and said a simple hello. Maybe a sixth sense told her when she was needed because she set her briefcase back on the floor and waved me to a seat. Dr. Kate was in her forties, with dark brown hair cut in a business-like bob. She looked too warmly dressed for the time of year in a white blouse, navy blazer, and designer jeans, but her office was pleasantly cool. The decor was soothing, casual, and the furniture carefully arranged.

  "I have thirty minutes before I must leave to pick up my youngest from school," she announced in a Boston accent.

  "I won't take that long," I replied. "I only want to see my file."

  "I saw on the news this morning that Beth Gervais was killed yesterday. Is she the gal you told me about? The one who was your childhood friend?"

  "Yes, it's her."

  "I watched your interview. You're investigating her death. How are you coping?"

  "I don't want to talk about it. As I said, I just want to see my file, please."

  "You didn't speak at all for the first two sessions after you were shot. I thought we were past that."

  When I said nothing, she continued:

  "Okay, I'll bite. Why do you want to see your file?"

  "To see what it says about my relationship with Beth."

  "Don't you already know?

  "In an odd way, I think she did me a favor when she ran out on me and got my dad hauled away."

  "How so?" Doctor Kate inclined her head toward me. I thought they must be taught to do it at shrink school because I met several in the military who did the exact same thing.

  "As a child, I was so focused on Beth, that I didn't form any other close friendships. When she and my dad both went out of my life, I only had myself to fall back on."

  "That was a good thing?"

  "When the police released my dad, he was broken. I had no one. It forced me to make big decisions myself; to not rely on anyone else's judgment. I now think Beth gave me that understanding, that gift. Had it not been for her, my life would have turned out entirely differently. And not in a good way."

  "That's an enlightened viewpoint, Megan." Dr. Kate shifted in her chair.

  "I don't always make the best decisions. I may have got Beth killed."

  "How so?"

  "She phoned me several times last week and left messages, but I was too busy to answer or call her back."

  "Do you still have the messages?"

  "Some of them. But I can't find the one in which Beth said why she was calling. I barely listened to it. Something about a discovery being a police matter."

  "Then you know what to do."

  "How will listening to them help Beth?"

  "They might help you catch her killer. I'm sure Beth would want you to do that."

  "It won't bring her back."

  "You're complaining because you can't bring the dead back to life?"

  "I was too wrapped up in work to return her calls."

  "Are you going to continue to beat yourself with that stick?"

  "I can be self-absorbed, selfish."

  "Can't we all?"

  "Neglectful of others. I should visit my mother more often."

  "It's part of the human condition."

  "I suppose I want absolution for not finding the time to call her."

  "You should have gone to see a priest instead."

  "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have shown up like this." I made a move to stand but stopped when she said:

  "But here you are. Now, what do you want to look at in your file?"

  "Nothing important, I guess."

  "Isn't it a conflict for you to investigate the killing of someone you were once so close to?"

  "I won't tell if you don't."

  "It will put an unreasonable amount of stress on you. More than I like to see at this stage of your recovery. You were shot, and your partner was killed."

  "I'll practice the clean-living pointers you gave me." The ideas we'd discussed were less about sex and drinking, and more about exercise, regular meals, and getting to sleep on time.

  "Are you taking the Desyrel I prescribed?"

  "It makes my mind too foggy; slows my reflexes."

  "After taking it for four months, you need to come off it slowly. Reduce the dose a little at a time. If you abruptly stop taking it, you'll feel agitated and have difficulty sleeping, . . . or worse."

  "I'll keep it in mind. What can I take to help me sleep?"

  "Desyrel." Doctor Kate's gaze moved to the wall clock behind me. "I have to pick up my child. When would you like to come in next for an appointment? The cost should be fully covered."

  "I'd like to leave it open for now if you don't mind."

  "Alright. Remember the breathing and the stress reduction techniques we discussed."

  We both rose. I shook Doctor Kate's hand and flashed her a smile.

  It was now mid-afternoon. I'd skipped lunch, so I picked up a chicken sandwich and fries to go from Shakes 'n Burgers. My landlords originally built my cottage in the grounds of their one-hundred-year-old Victorian house to accommodate Mrs. McKenzie's mother. After she died, the McKenzies rented it to me. There was a kitchen-living room, and two bedrooms if you count the loft conversion. I sat at my multipurpose table and thumbed up Beth's
messages while I munched on the take-out.

  "Megan, it's Beth Gervais again. I don't know if you've listened to my last message, but I need your help. I can understand why you may not wish to speak to me, but please call me back at The Examiner. This is an urgent police matter."

  Two similar messages followed, but none gave any details about the reason for her call. I had no memory of erasing her first one, but the phone company had told me it was not in the system anymore.

  I crumpled the food wrappers and took them to the trash bin outside to prevent them from stinking up my place. The more I tried to grasp at leads, the more they seemed to slip through my fingers.

  CHAPTER 12

  EARLY THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Chief Kane came into the squad room asking for Lieutenant Townsend. When none of us could say where he was, Kane grumbled:

  "He damn well should be here. We're holding a news conference in five minutes. Members of the press and Ashley Logan's parents are waiting downstairs. I want the murders splashed across tomorrow's papers and the lead story in this evening's newscasts."

  "Maybe they will stream it live on Facebook, "Prentiss said.

  "Quite." Kane's face clouded with uncertainty.

  "Why are we holding a press conference?" I asked.

  "We need to let the community and the Mayor know we're on top of this investigation, Riley."

  I bit my tongue and nodded. Appearing argumentative over a done deal was pointless. But I didn't see a reason to hold a meeting when we had so little to share—precious few leads and no persons of interest. The media had a multitude of ways to get the information Kane was about to present.

  "I want you both there." He regarded Prentiss. "Chop, chop, Detectives."

  News conferences were held in the large multipurpose room on the ground floor. When I arrived, Mayor Whitehead was ushering an older couple to seats on the small stage. This was the first I'd heard of Ashley's parents. Prentiss told me he was unable to find any close relatives.

  About a dozen media types were seated at tables facing the stage. Kayla Ellis was in the front row, chatting to another reporter. Behind them, on a raised platform, technicians fiddled with three video cameras on tripods. The in-house photographer hovered near the stage, poised to take pictures which Kane would later vet for release to the media.

  I took a seat next to the Mayor and overheard Ashley's father ask her why the police were not out looking for his daughter's killer instead of wasting time there. Prentiss asked me what he should say if called on to speak.

  "He probably won't ask you. If he does, say we're reviewing the evidence. Keep it brief and try to look somber but confident."

  Kane strode to the lectern and tapped the microphone. He was in his element in front of reporters and cameras. "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for being here. I'm Wes Kane, Chief of Police. After I have said a few words, Mayor Whitehead will speak, followed by Detective Megan Riley. Then we'll take a few questions.

  The Chief launched into a longer than necessary speech covering the deaths of the two women, their place in the community, and his resolve to apprehend those responsible quickly.

  "With us today are members of Logan's family. Her father, James, and mother, Patrice." Kane half turned to the couple. "Ashley was their only child. I'll now turn the meeting over to Mayor Whitehead." Kane stepped aside for her to take his place.

  The Mayor delivered an impassioned speech about the death of the most exceptional assistant she had known. She spoke at length about perseverance in bringing killers to justice, and the tragedy of a woman's life brutally cut short. Despite her attempt at sincerity, her words sounded more politically expedient than heartfelt.

  "It's time for us all to stand and be counted. It's time to cut the cancer of evil out of our community. Thank you." She stepped back from the lectern, for me to take her place. I didn't see James Logan until he shoved me aside and pulled the microphone to his mouth.

  "I'm James Logan, Ashley's father. Her death is beyond a tragedy for her mother and me. We're pledging twenty-five thousand dollars for information leading to the successful prosecution of the people responsible. I'm asking the city to match this amount."

  I stifled a groan. Putting a bounty on the heads of Ashley and Beth's killers would only complicate bringing them to justice—something relatives never understood. We were a small department and were not set up for fielding the resulting crank calls and investigating the false leads.

  I pulled the goose-necked microphone toward me. As the murmurs from the reporters subsided, I said:

  "I'm Detective Megan Riley. Beth Gervais was killed around 7 a.m. last Monday. Her car was torched some forty-five minutes later near the City Wastewater Treatment Plant. Due to the fire at the house the women shared, we do not have an exact time of death for Ashley Logan, beyond sometime Monday morning. We believe both crimes were perpetrated by two men wearing plaid shirts, jeans, and possibly baseball caps. I understand we'll be releasing a photograph of the men in question, pulled from surveillance footage." I turned to Kane, and he nodded. "The men drove a dark-colored SUV to the crime scene, possibly an Explorer. Don't hesitate to call us with any information, even if it's something you think we already know. We want the community to rest assured we will capture the people responsible."

  Kane took his place at the lectern and opened the meeting to questions. Several reporters shouted at once. Kane motioned them to be quiet and pointed to Kayla Ellis, seated in the front row.

  "What leads are you following, beyond what you've told us?"

  When Kane nodded to me, I said, "We're following several avenues of inquiry, but none that we can release at this time."

  "You're saying you have no leads?"

  "We have leads. I don't want the information falling into the hands of the killers."

  A cacophony of demands ensued. Kane pointed to a reporter from a Sacramento television station.

  "Can you tell us about the weapons used?"

  "Both women died from knife wounds. We believe it was a hunting style knife with a serrated blade. We haven't recovered it yet," I said.

  One of The Examiner reporters on the front row asked, "What can you tell us about the fire at the victims' house?"

  Before I could answer, the Mayor jumped to her feet and strode to the microphone, pulling it her way. "It was an electrical fault—possibly faulty wiring. The killers disturbed it when they searched the apartment."

  What on earth was she doing answering such a question, I wondered? I wasn't ready to talk about an incendiary device, but were my ideas so radical as to need hiding from the press?

  "Chief Kane, why isn't a more experienced investigator assigned to the case?" a TV reporter shouted. "Your lead detective is recently back from medical leave, and the other detective is only a few months out of school."

  Kane leaned into the microphone. "I have every confidence in the investigators on this case. Detective Prentiss joined us at the beginning of the year. He is teamed with Detective Riley who, I'm pleased to say has been with us for over five years. She received two commendations when she worked for the Robbery Homicide Division of the LAPD. Before that, she was a sergeant serving in the military police. These detectives are backed up by countless technical investigators. Rest assured, we will apprehend the cowardly murderers. That's all the questions we have time for today, but we'll keep you apprised of developments. Thank you."

  A few reporters continued to shout questions, but everyone on the stage stood, and walked out of the exit. In the corridor, Kane buttonholed Ashley's parents and steered them toward Prentiss and me, saying:

  "I believe these detectives would like a word with you if you can spare a moment. I'm going to leave you in their capable hands."

  I addressed Ashley's parents. "We'd like to extend our condolences for your loss. Would you please come this way?"

  As we led them to the conference room, Patrice Logan leaned heavily on her husband and dabbed her eyes with a small lace handkerchief
. He was tall, distinguished-looking; she was shorter than me, with a beehive hairdo.

  Kane used the room for his roundtables and his meetings with city dignitaries. Once I had them seated, I said, "We're interested in activities your daughter was involved in, and anything you can tell us about the people with whom she socialized."

  "You think one of her friends did this to her?" James Logan snapped.

  "We try to keep an open mind at this stage of the investigation, but I can say it's doubtful she knew her attacker. We want to build as complete a profile of her life as we can."

  "I can tell you we didn't approve of her relationship with this Beth character. Was it a murder-suicide?"

  "We think it's doubtful," Prentiss said.

  "How about the boyfriend, what's his name, Matt Baker?" Patrice Logan asked.

  "We're not ruling anyone out at this time," I answered. "What did Ashley involve herself in, outside of work?"

  "She was always helping out her roommate. That is the politically correct term, isn't it?" James said. "We kept trying to tell her she should live her own life, find a successful man to marry. We both spoke to her only last week. She told us the roommate had asked her to help research some article or other. The whole living arrangement was unsatisfactory."

  "Mr. Logan, this is important. Did she give you any details about the research?"

  "She had to visit several people and interview them."

  "Did she tell you what she was asking them about?"

  "They were parents. That's all I remember. Now if you don't mind, we have to arrange our daughter's funeral."

  James Logan started to push his chair away from the table, but his wife raised a hand to stop him.

  "Do you think what she told us last Wednesday was anything to do with it? Tell them what she said," Patrice insisted.