The Pain Scale

by Tyler Dilts

  I live in the lower unit of a duplex in Belmont Heights, on Roycroft, a block from Warren High School. The tenants before me were a graphic designer and his family. He had a flair for color, and the way he’d painted the place was the reason I moved in. The kitchen is done in bright primary colors—red and blue and yellow—with a Caribbean flair. The dining room, living room, and master bedroom are finished in textured plaster, each in a different earth tone, with the ceiling molding and accents in perfect contrasting colors. The detail that really sold me, though, was the bedroom that had belonged to his daughter. From the doorway, the wall on the left is painted a deep blue, highlighted with a night full of white-gold stars surrounding a smirking crescent moon over which jumped one very happy cow. As your eyes travel up the wall and onto the ceiling, the colors gradually fade, perfectly blending together in imitation of the growing dawn, becoming lighter and lighter until day breaks on the far right wall in a rainbow of bright colors, with a glowing yellow-and-orange sun that beams out from behind a perfectly detailed pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses. Even now, I like to stand in the middle of the room and let my gaze slowly drift from one wall to the other.

  When my wife, Megan, died, she was pregnant and hoping for a girl.

  I moved in about six months later.

  The night of the Benton murders, I tried to sleep, but as is often the case, I couldn’t. I went into the spare bedroom, spun the desk chair away from the computer in the corner, and stared at a grinning star painted by a man I’ve never met. As I massaged the pain in my left forearm, I thought about the day and all that had happened. I couldn’t help wondering if it was a twinge of guilt I felt as I smiled back at the sun and imagined the coming day.

  Five

  I MANAGED A few hours of sleep and woke to the pain dull and throbbing in my wrist and forearm. It seemed like a good sign. I do better with that than when it’s sharper and more piercing.

  Most days I have to make a choice. Usually I know shortly after I wake up whether the day will end with Vicodin or with vodka. If the pain tends toward the sharper side, the narcotic usually works better, but if it’s duller and more generalized, the Grey Goose is usually more effective. Either way, just to take the edge off, I have to get so wrecked that I wind up in a near-drooling daze.

  At that point, I’d manage with just one or the other, but most days I figure it is just a matter of time. It is all about the Vs.

  Even with a solid four hours of sack time, I still managed to beat the lieutenant into the squad room by more than an hour. When he arrived, he helped himself to one of the donuts I’d brought. He went for his regular—a maple bar. Me, I was on my second vanilla cruller. And I had serious designs on a third. That’s the thing about picking up the pink boxes yourself. It’s really the only way to make sure you get enough crullers. Nobody ever gets enough crullers. And nothing starts the day off worse than having to settle for some strawberry-coconut piece of crap.

  “Rise and shine,” Ruiz said around his first bite. “You get any sleep?”

  “A little.” I didn’t sleep much. The previous night’s discovery about the case’s effect on my pain hadn’t allowed me much rest. But I couldn’t deny that I’d woken that morning feeling more enthusiastic about going to work than I had in a long time. Would I be able to get lost in the case again? What would happen to my pain? Now that I was aware of the phenomenon, would the relief disappear?

  “What’s the game plan?”

  “I’m hoping we can talk to Bradley Benton today. We’ve also got a friend who Sara canceled lunch plans with yesterday to interview. Beyond that, Jen and I are putting together Sara’s last seventy-two hours and working the victimology. Anything about the rush on the autopsy?”

  “Paula’s doing it herself.”

  Paula Henderson is the lead medical examiner for the southern region of the LA County’s coroner’s jurisdiction. “The chief asked her to move the Bentons to the head of the line. So make some time for the prelim this afternoon.”

  “Will do.” I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of strings had been pulled on the congressman’s behalf. “When’s the press conference?”

  “Sometime this morning. Probably around ten so it’ll be less likely to be picked up live. The brass are happy as pigs in shit. None of the media’s caught wind of anything yet. They can’t stop talking about ‘managing the story.’” Los Angeles had local news coverage on one station or another all day long, but the 9 to 11 a.m. window had the fewest live broadcasts going on. “They’re hoping to break it before any media does. You get any calls yet?”

  “Not so far.”

  “The chief wants something planned before the congressman gets involved.”

  “Think he’ll want to be at the conference?”

  “I can’t imagine a politician missing a chance to make a speech.”

  “Better make it quick, then. You want Jen and me for the stand-up?”

  “I’ll get you out of it if I can, but don’t count on it.”

  “Might be a good chance to lasso some of the family.”

  “Good idea.”

  The brass would want the two lead investigators on the case to appear at the press conference disclosing the Benton murders. It was standard procedure. We wouldn’t speak or be spoken to. Our job would be to just stand there looking sad and competent. If Jen and I had to dance our jig, we’d lose a few hours of prime investigative time. But it might be worth it if it gave us an opportunity to interview the family.

  It was quarter to eight when Jen arrived. She eyeballed the donuts but didn’t take one.

  She studied me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You look rested,” she said.

  I thought about telling her what had happened last night, telling her about the relief the case seemed to be bringing me. But I didn’t know how to say it. I’d been trying to play down my pain levels. I knew she saw through it to some degree, but I didn’t know how much. I didn’t want to admit how much I had really been hurting, and I would have to do that for her to understand.

  And even more importantly, I was afraid talking about the case’s effects would diminish them.

  So I filled her in on the developments in the investigation and left everything else I was thinking about unsaid.

  When I finished, I asked how she thought we should prioritize the morning.

  “Talking to Benton’s number one,” she said.

  “I figured I’d wait until eight to call Campos. Then badger him into the soonest meet we can get. A little luck and it’ll be the same time as the press conference.”

  “How about the ‘Lunch with Cat’ note?”

  “I cross-referenced the address book, e-mail, cell, and landline records. Smart bet is that ‘Cat’ is Catherine Catanio. In the last month, Sara’s talked to her more days than not. After the family, I think we should make her number two on the list.”

  At 8:05, I called Campos’s office number, identified myself to the receptionist, and was told he was unavailable. I called back every two minutes. On the fifth try, she decided it would be all right to transfer me to his cell.

  “Campos.”

  “Hey, Julian. Danny Beckett, here. LBPD Homicide. Remember me?”

  “Yes.” I thought I could hear traces of annoyance in his voice, but that might have been wishful thinking. “What can I do for you?”

  “A couple of things. First, we’re going to need to talk to Bradley Benton today.”

  “I’m not sure that will be possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s having a very difficult time. His doctor has medicated him very heavily. It doesn’t seem he’ll be up to seeing anyone today.”

  “How about the rest of the family?” Now it was my turn to try not to sound annoyed.

  “That’s certainly more of a possibility.”

  “The chief and Media Relations have scheduled a press conference for ten a.m. The congressman and any other members of his family are certainly welc
ome to attend.”

  “Yes, we’ve been informed. Mr. Benton’s father and mother will both be in attendance.”

  I wasn’t surprised. The chief’s office had probably cleared it with the family before they bothered to tell us. You get even more perks for being a congressman than you do for being just plain rich.

  “Perhaps we could speak to them briefly afterward.”

  “I’m certain we can arrange something.”

  To nearly everyone’s surprise, the congressman was, in fact, able to pass up an opportunity to make a speech. He didn’t even make an appearance on the platform with the chief and the rest of us. He sat in the back of the room with his wife, Campos, and a small entourage. I kept my eyes on him for most of the duration of the press conference. He was wearing a dark suit, his hair was coifed in perfect anchorman fashion, and he seemed to be holding up well. I wondered how strong a wind would be required to dislodge it. His wife, Margaret, was taking it much harder. Even with the obvious face work and Botox, the grief still found its way into her expression. As the talking heads spoke, she closed her eyes, and her lips tightened into a subtle grimace that seemed her only defense against an overwhelming emotional onslaught. Even from thirty feet away, I could see her pain.

  First the chief and then Captain Hemmings from Media Relations made vague and general statements about the crime; then they took questions from the press, which they answered with more vague and general statements. It all amounted to them saying we don’t really know anything and maybe we’ll tell you something when we do. Maybe.

  Ruiz thought it best to give as much of the appearance of preferential treatment to the senior Mr. Benton as possible, so he arranged for the interview to be held in the administrative conference room on the sixth floor. That’s the one in which the chief and his deputies gather to hatch their plans for world domination. There’s a lot of teak.

  Jen and I were already seated at the large table when Ruiz and DC Baxter escorted Congressman and Mrs. Benton and Julian Campos into the room, followed by a bald man with a shiny head and a much younger woman who seemed to be burdened more by the proceedings than anyone else in the entourage. The lieutenant led the congressman to the seat at the head of the table, and the politician sat there without an apparent thought about it. The deputy chief made the introductions. The two we hadn’t seen before were Roger Kroll and Molly Fields, the congressman’s chief of staff and his assistant.

  Jen began. “We can’t begin to express how sorry we are for your loss.”

  The congressman said, “Thank you.”

  It was a foregone conclusion that Jen would take the lead in the interview. She has a way of conveying empathy that I am never able to manage. And we’d been ordered by Baxter to use the utmost sensitivity with the Bentons. He’d sighed with relief when Ruiz had told him who’d be asking most of the questions.

  “We know this is very difficult,” Jen said. “Can either of you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm Sara or the children?”

  The congressman said, “I thought this was a home-invasion robbery. That it was random. Are you saying it’s something else?”

  “No, sir,” Jen said. “We just need to consider everything at this point. There is some evidence to suggest robbery as the motive, but it’s not conclusive. So we need to look at every possibility.”

  “Why would anyone want to hurt Sara or the children?” Mrs. Benton asked.

  “No one would,” her husband said. “At least no one I can imagine.”

  Jen went on. “I know your son is an attorney. What type of law does he practice?”

  “He used to do contracts. Now he’s consulting with a lobbying firm in Washington. That’s why he was away when it happened.”

  “How much time was he spending away from home?”

  “One or two weeks a month. He still has an office here in Long Beach that he works out of the rest of the time.”

  “Do you think it’s possible that someone might have wanted to hurt him through his wife and children?”

  “Well,” the congressman said, shaking his head, “politics can be pretty vicious, but I can’t imagine anything like this.” He seemed to get lost in his own thoughts for a moment. “No,” he said finally, “not like this.”

  Jen shifted her body slightly to be more inclusive of the congressman’s wife. “Do either of you know Catherine Catanio?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Benton said. “She was Sara’s maid of honor. They’ve been friends since college. Why?”

  Just to feel useful, I answered her question. “They were going to have lunch yesterday.” For some reason, that statement triggered her tears, and she tugged a tissue from the box on the table in front of her.

  Jen let her have a few seconds to compose herself, then asked, “How were Brad and Sara doing?”

  “What do you mean?” Mrs. Benton asked.

  “Well,” Jen said, “he’d been away a lot.” She offered a slight smile and made sure there was nothing harsh or accusatory in her tone. “Was that, or anything else, causing any strain or stress in their relationship?”

  “Neither one of them was too happy about him being out of town so much,” Mrs. Benton said, “but neither of them thought it was a long-term situation. And I can’t think of anything else. Sara seemed so happy the last time I talked to her. She was excited about being back in school, and the kids were doing so well.” Her voice trailed off as she reached for another tissue.

  Congressman Benton continued for her. “Brad told me—in confidence, of course—that they were even thinking about another baby.” He rubbed at his eyes and cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” he said.

  “You said Sara was back in school?” I asked. “Yes,” Mrs. Benton said. “She’s working on a master’s degree in art history. It’s something she’s been wanting to do for quite a while. She just started in the fall.”

  Jen asked a few more questions, but we both knew we’d gotten all we would from them for a while. We thanked them for their time and once again offered our condolences. The deputy chief escorted them out of the room.

  “Any insights?” Ruiz asked.

  I shook my head and looked out the window. The sky was the crisp and clear Southern California blue we usually only see the day after a winter storm. But it hadn’t rained in weeks.

  Five

  “GOT SOMETHING FOR you,” Marty said as we came back into the squad.

  “Something good?” I asked.

  “Nothing earth-shattering, but it might be useful.” He flipped open his notebook and went on. “On the canvass, we came up with two people who spotted a white van in the neighborhood. This morning, we got a confirmation from Criminalistics. There was some dirty water in the gutter outside the Bentons’ driveway. Left a tread pattern when they drove through it. Matches the OEM tires on a GMC commercial van from ’02 through ’05. No plates or anything else, but it’s something.”

  Jen asked, “They get enough of a print to match the tire?”

  “Maybe,” Marty said.

  “Got to be stolen or rented,” I said.

  “Dave’s downstairs now checking with Auto Theft.”

  “Good,” Jen said. “Maybe we’ll catch a break.”

  We parked an unmarked department cruiser in the beach lot on the peninsula across from Naples Island and ate chicken tacos from Cocoreno’s. The February crowd was sparse, and the day was beautiful. For a moment, I thought of how nice it would be to take the afternoon off and just watch the sunlight play on the waves. Then I felt a twinge of pain in my forearm and got back to business.

  I couldn’t be sure, but I thought Jen noticed me noticing my pain. Her expression changed, and I thought I saw a flicker of concern in her eyes. There must have been something I wasn’t aware of in my voice or body language that she was picking up on.

  “Find out anything about Catherine Catanio?” I asked.

  “Teaches art history at Cal State. According to the university website, she’s published a bunch of stuff
about Picasso. She’s up on her cubism.”

  “That’s pointy people with two eyes on one side of their head, right?”

  “Could be. There weren’t any pictures.”

  “Just so you know, I was going to make a crack about her being abstract, but it was too lame, even for me.”

  “There are cracks that are too lame for you?”

  I let her have the point. I didn’t have a comeback.

  With more than thirty-five thousand students, California State University, Long Beach, is one of the largest institutions of higher learning in the state. It’s also my alma mater. I graduated with a double major in criminal justice and English. My father was an LA deputy sheriff who died in the line of duty when I was still young enough to believe in giant-killers. From the time I was six years old, I knew that I would be a cop when I grew up. My mother hated the idea. She told me my father’s only wish for his sons was that they never went into law enforcement. So when it came time to decide about college, I picked one subject for myself and one for her. She’s still hoping I’ll someday wind up teaching poetry to teenagers.

  Aside from the ginormous blue pyramid visible from the 405 freeway a mile to the north that housed most of the school’s athletic events, and the two new science buildings perched on the hillside of the upper campus, things looked pretty much the same as they had when I graduated way back in the last millennium.

  The students, at least, had fewer mullets.

  As a courtesy, we checked in with the university police. They gave us a parking pass and a token that would let us through the security gate into one of the staff lots. There weren’t any open spots in the lot they’d told us to park in, so we did laps up and down the lanes waiting for someone to leave. It took about twenty minutes for a tweedy-looking fellow to back his Prius out of a nice shady spot under a eucalyptus tree.

  The faculty offices for the art department were in a row of aged twostory metal-and-stucco rectangles tucked along the east edge of the campus behind the larger buildings that housed the classrooms, studios, galleries, and workshops. We climbed an exterior staircase with a wobbly railing and found FO4 203. The door was open. We’d called ahead.