by Steve Gannon
“That’s not really fair, is it?”
Brent shrugged, absently worrying a thumbnail with his teeth. “Oh, a bit of it is. Maybe more than a bit. But the news has to make money like everything else; otherwise it couldn’t exist. So we give viewers what they want. And when all’s said and done, what’s so wrong with that?” Noticing Liz watching him bite his nail, Brent removed his hand from his mouth and continued. “If we can inform the public and entertain them at the same time, why not?”
“Because mainstream news likes to think it’s different from the paparazzi on motorbikes snapping pictures,” answered Mike, returning from the bar. “But it isn’t. Insights like that, by the way, mark the difference between a professional cameraman such as myself and someone with a real job,” he added wryly, setting a double handful of glasses on the table. “Chevas rocks, vodka gimlet, Red Hook, and a Coke. Grab ’em while they’re frosty.”
“How much do I owe?” asked Brent.
“I’ve got this one,” said Mike, resuming his place. “Sorry about breaking in on your sterling defense of the news, by the way. Speaking of which, do you have any words of wisdom for Allison?”
“Yeah. Don’t fight with management,” said Brent tersely.
Brent’s response brought an instant nod of agreement from Liz. Then, frowning, Liz turned to Mike. “Paparazzi? I suppose you’d like to turn back the clock to the days of Edward R. Murrow and Eric Sevareid and the like.”
Mike lifted his beer. “Unfortunately, Liz, that’s not possible,” he said evenly, taking a healthy sip. “Thanks to TV, pictures have replaced words, and in case you haven’t noticed, crazed gunmen and murders du jour provide better visuals than in-depth coverage of world events. Not to belabor the point, but FBI figures show that national crime has been decreasing for years, while news stations continue to escalate their coverage of blood and guts—on average giving it twice the air time they did a decade ago. Meanwhile, among other things, international-news reporting has declined by half.”
“Sad, but true,” said Brent. “If it bleeds, it leads. But to be fair, all broadcast journalism isn’t murder and mayhem at eleven. There’s good work being done even now, and some reporters still have scruples.”
Mike chuckled. “This coming from a guy who would sell his own mother for a story.”
“Guilty as charged,” said Brent. “In my defense, I’m no different from anyone else in the business.”
“No. Just better at it than most,” said Mike. “Incidentally, I caught the Jordan French spot you did today at the reservoir. Impressive.”
“Thanks.”
“Where’d you get the exclusive on the ransom note? None of the other stations mentioned that.”
With a renewed rush of guilt, I wondered how much Lauren had told Brent.
“Van Owen received an anonymous tip,” answered Brent. “I checked my sources to get confirmation. Eventually it panned out.”
“So who’s handling the investigation now that it’s turned into a homicide?” asked Liz, reaching across the table to take Brent’s hand. “Anybody we know?”
“Some hard-ass detective named Kane,” Brent replied. “He wouldn’t even comment on the case. Said the next of kin had to be notified first. I got most of my material from one of the Van Nuys patrol cops and a friend at the coroner’s office.”
“Kane,” mused Liz. “Now, why does that name sound familiar?”
“No relation of yours, is he, Allison?” joked Brent.
“He’s my father.”
All heads at the table turned toward me. After several seconds Brent found his voice. “You’re kidding.”
“No.”
“Now I recall,” Liz said brightly. “Kane was on that Candlelight Killer Task Force two years ago.” Then, her eyes widening, “Oh, my God. Detective Daniel Kane. It was all over the news when Lauren was attacked, remember? Kane was the cop Van Owen was, uh …” Liz let her voice trail off meaningfully.
“Kane and Lauren?” said Brent incredulously.
“Sure,” Liz went on. “Don’t you see? It explains everything. What does your mother have to say about your working for Lauren, Allison?”
“I haven’t told her yet.”
“You haven’t?” Liz smiled, clearly enjoying herself now. “Well, sooner or later you’ll have to. I would like to be a fly on the wall during that conversation.”
It was the second time that evening I had heard those same words. Unable to hide my embarrassment, I lowered my head and rose from the table. “Excuse me. I have to go to the bathroom,” I said.
After crossing the bar, I stood in the lobby taking deep breaths, angry with myself for having allowed Liz to get under my skin. I considered walking home, but decided that would only make matters worse. If I were going to work at CBS, I had to set things straight with Liz, and the sooner the better. Whatever had gone on between my father and Lauren had nothing to do with me. And if Liz or anybody else thought it did, they were mistaken.
My mouth set in a grim line of determination, I reentered the bar. As I approached our table, I noticed that Mike was now engaged in a heated conversation with Brent’s date. “Jesus, Liz,” I heard Mike say. “Sometimes you can be a royal pain.”
Liz shot Mike a contemptuous glare, her eyes flashing like daggers. “Screw you, Cortese. I wasn’t the one who got some cop to cheat on his frigid, ice-princess wife in order to get inside information. And now, of all things, Lauren has apparently hired his daughter to—” Liz hesitated midsentence, suddenly noticing me.
I stopped beside the table. Instead of sitting, I remained standing, hands balled at my sides. I stared at Liz, feeling the newswoman’s words settling like spit on my face. “Let’s get something straight, Ms. Waterson,” I said quietly, holding the older woman’s gaze with mine. “First, my father and Ms. Van Owen haven’t seen each other for years. Second, my being hired at CBS had nothing to do with what happened between them in the past. And third, if you ever talk about my mother that way again, I’ll make you wish you hadn’t.”
As Mike walked me back to my dorm, I was still simmering over my confrontation with Liz. Paradoxically, I was also furious with myself for losing my temper.
“Want to talk about it?” Mike ventured.
“No.”
“C’mon, Allison. What are you thinking right now?”
“I’m thinking I shouldn’t have blown my top like that,” I answered.
“Liz was out of line. Way out of line.”
“Yeah, but I made things worse,” I said, my mood plummeting. “On the other hand, I suppose the danger of bottling up hostility is that one runs the risk of forgetting it.”
“Good point,” Mike chuckled.
“Anyway, thanks for sticking up for me.”
“My pleasure. You know, for a moment I thought you were really going to deck her.”
“I still might,” I said.
“Let me know if you do. I’d like to be there for that.”
“No problem. Jeez, what did I ever do to her?”
“Liz can be a real bitch about anything that threatens her at work, but I think what took place tonight had more to do with the way she saw Brent looking at you,” Mike observed. “They’ve been an item for years, and she’s definitely not the sharing type.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. Our discussion drifted into silence, with the remainder of our walk up sorority row passing quickly. When we reached the steps of my dorm, I was surprised to find myself wishing the evening weren’t ending. “Not counting my argument with Liz, I had fun tonight,” I said, wondering whether Mike would accompany me to the front door. Oh, God, I thought. What if he tries to kiss me?
“I had fun, too,” said Mike, following me up the stairs.
When we reached the top landing, I turned, dreading the inevitable first-date moment at the door. I lowered my gaze, suddenly finding it hard to breathe.
Mike moved closer. “Ali?”
I looked up.
M
ike’s eyes found mine. “Be careful at CBS. Unless I miss my guess, your dad’s being the lead investigator on the Jordan French case will cause complications. You’ve already made one enemy at the station. In time, you may find that some of your other new associates over there aren’t what they seem, either.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m just saying be careful.”
“I will.”
“Good. I’ll see you later.” With a smile, Mike turned and headed down the stairs.
Relieved, disappointed, and irrationally irritated that Mike hadn’t even attempted to kiss me—not even a quick peck—I stood on the dorm landing, watching as he disappeared into the night.
6
At eleven-thirty the following morning, after attending the autopsy of Jordan French at the Los Angeles County Coroner’s Office, Kane returned to the West Los Angeles Division station on Butler Avenue. Upon entering the windowless, two-story building across from the county courthouse, he made his way directly to the office of Lt. Nelson Long, the division’s commanding officer.
Stopping outside Lt. Long’s door, Kane struggled to shake the depression he had felt since witnessing the body of the fourteen-year-old girl being laid open on a cold metal table—what once had been a living, breathing child reduced under the coroner’s knife to a collection of snips and slices, a library of tissues and fluids to be minutely examined, weighed, and preserved. Though Kane had attended many such procedures, for him this had been one of the hardest.
Attempting to put the autopsy behind him, Kane rapped on the door. “Come,” announced a gravelly voice from the other side, sounding like a diesel engine turning over.
As Kane entered, Lt. Long looked up from his desk. Although Long’s broad, African-American features remained impassive, his eyes betrayed the perceptive intelligence that had enabled him to climb LAPD ranks on ability alone. A large man, nearly as big as Kane, Long was one of the few members of the brass to whom Kane afforded both his respect and trust.
“Good morning, Dan.”
“Morning, Lieutenant,” Kane replied, noticing that Carl Peyron was also present.
“Grab a seat,” said Long brusquely.
Kane dropped into a wooden chair beside Peyron.
“I asked Carl here to recap MAC’s progress on the abduction,” Long continued. “But before we get into that, there’s something I want to make absolutely clear to both of you. There are to be no further leaks on the French case. Not from this department, anyway.”
“You’re referring to the media finding out about the ransom note?” asked Kane.
“Correct. Captain Lincoln was all over my ass about it this morning. He said heads are gonna roll if it happens again.”
“It wasn’t me,” said Kane.
“Me, neither,” added Peyron. “It was probably one of those tube steaks over at the DA’s office.”
“I’m not accusing anyone,” said Long. “Just make sure there are no repeats. If the leak is in our ranks, find it and plug it. With a high-profile investigation like this, things will be hard enough without tripping over reporters every time we turn around.”
“You’re preaching to the choir here, Lieutenant,” said Kane.
“Fine, Dan. Let’s move on. You first. What have you got so far?”
Kane took a second to collect his thoughts. “Well, to begin with, the kid wasn’t killed at the reservoir. Lividity marks show that she lay on her right side for a number of hours after death, so she must have been transported afterward. And whoever put her in the water knew what he was doing. He could have just buried her.”
Long leaned forward. “You’re saying someone dumped Jordan in the reservoir to eliminate evidence, not just to get rid of the body?”
“Absolutely,” said Kane. “And he succeeded, too. An exam of the corpse produced nothing in the way of hair, fibers, latent prints, tissue under her nails, and the like.”
“What about the dump site?”
“Nothing. No footprints, tire tracks, cuts in the fence, or other physical evidence, with the exception of a length of nylon cord tied around one wrist—probably from whatever was used to weigh her down. Divers are doing a grid search later today, but it’s a big reservoir with a lot of shoreline.”
“How long was she under?”
“Based on the average water temperature at a depth near the shoreline, the coroner estimates her submersion time was from eight to ten days,” answered Kane. “Fly eggs and larvae on her back and shoulders indicate she wasn’t floating for more than a day or so. Adding that to the submersion estimate gives a time of death right around the day she was reported missing.”
Donning a pair of reading glasses, Long lifted a thick, three-ring binder with block letters on the spine reading “French.” Known in departmental jargon as a murder book, it was an LAPD compilation of all records pertinent to the case. At present it included only Kane’s death report and his preliminary entries in the crime report. Other items relating to the investigation would soon be added, including Peyron’s initial investigative work, detailed measurements of the abduction scene and dump site, pictures, autopsy findings, field-interview summaries, notes and regularly updated follow-ups, search warrants and their returns detailing material taken as evidence, surveillance reports, arrest warrants, and any other relevant documents.
Long opened the book without comment. Finding what he wanted, he continued. “Your crime report states that the access road had locked gates at both ends. Neither gate looked disturbed. You think the guy carried in the body?”
“It would have been a long haul over rough terrain,” Kane said doubtfully. “But maybe. Besides the gates, there are a number of other possible points of entry. Washed-out culverts under the outer chain-link fence, for instance. A preliminary canvass of neighborhoods around the area got us zip, although a lot of residents weren’t home. I contacted the Van Nuys watch commander and requested that he send out another squad tonight. It’s possible somebody may remember a strange vehicle being parked in the area. We also need to run down anyone with a key to the gates. I’m putting Deluca and Banowski on that,” he added, referring to two fellow detectives on the homicide unit.
“Good idea. Speaking of which, who does have keys to the fire road?”
“DWP, Southern California Edison, and the Fire Department. And LAPD, of course. I hate to even think a cop was involved, but I’m having Van Nuys detectives make discreet inquiries in the ranks to see whether anybody out there lost his keys, or had them borrowed or stolen.”
“What about the autopsy?”
Kane shifted in his seat, resting his forearms on his knees. “A couple of things turned up. Like I said, Jordan was dead when she went into the reservoir. No water in her lungs or stomach. The coroner is listing her cause of death as a subdural hematoma resulting from a fractured skull. He thinks the bleeding into her brain developed over a period of hours. There was no tearing of the scalp, so the skull trauma was caused by something blunt. She also had welts on her back and buttocks, probably inflicted before death by something flat and flexible.”
“Like a belt?”
“Maybe. The coroner also found a focal area of erosion on the anterior wall of her vagina. Except for a residual annular ring, the hymen was absent as well.”
“Had she been raped?”
Kane shrugged. “That’s up for grabs. I had the sexual-assault unit take vaginal, rectal, and oral swabs. The reports came back negative: no sperm or seminal fluid. But sperm often begins deteriorating within an hour, and sometimes elevated acid phosphatase in the vagina doesn’t last more than a few days—so the negative results aren’t definitive. Although rape or sexual abuse could be a factor, there were no signs of disfigurement, strangulation, or tearing of the genitalia typical in a crime of sexual rage. Which leaves abuse. I’m withholding judgment on that until we get the results of the microscopic tissue exam. Incidentally, the gastric contents showed that Jordan’s last meal, pasta with some sort of red se
afood sauce, had undergone a digestion period of three to four hours.”
Long nodded. “That may help nail down the time of death. What about the lab tests?”
“Toxicology, vaginal sections, and microscopic slides of the welts are under way,” said Kane, still continuing from memory. “We’re also checking for the presence of any sexually transmitted diseases. I’ll be talking with her family doctor about that, among other things,” he added.
All three men knew that statistics showed childhood sexual abuse was usually done by parents or a close family member, and that when a parent or parents killed a child, they usually staged an abduction and reported their offspring missing. At that point it was a possibility no one wanted to mention, but it hung in the air like a rotten stench.
“I don’t have it all figured yet,” Kane continued, reading the question in Long’s eyes. “What I do know is that we have evidence of vaginal penetration, although in a fourteen-year-old a missing hymen could have other explanations besides rape or sexual abuse. On the other hand, the strap marks on her back and buttocks indicate she had been nude when beaten, suggesting a sexual angle to the crime. The cause of death taking hours to develop could mean the killing was unplanned. The body being placed in water implies a killer who wanted to eliminate forensic evidence that could tie him to his victim, even if the corpse were found.”
“Meaning he knew her?”
“Maybe. At least it makes you wonder. As for the dump site, the inaccessibility of the reservoir tells me the guy’s a local. He knows his way around. Even if he drove in, he still had to cross difficult terrain carrying a body, so he’s probably a strong male.” Kane paused thoughtfully.
“What?”
“I don’t know, Lieutenant. There are a couple of things that don’t add up. The ransom angle, for instance. People who kidnap children usually do it for one of three reasons: profit, sexual gratification, or because they’re lonely and want a child. Suspects belonging to the second and third categories never send ransom demands. If this is a sexual crime, as it appears to be, why the ransom demand?” Kane turned to Peyron. “Is there any chance this could have been a burglary-gone-wrong?”