In My Dark Dreams

by JF Freedman

  “Besides deciding that the cause of death was strangulation, and that the victim had been killed a few hours before she was found, was there anything unusual about her, or the circumstances, that you noticed?”

  “She was fully dressed,” Walker answers, “except for her underpants. They were missing.”

  “All her clothes were accounted for, except her underpants,” Loomis restates the answer.

  “Yes.”

  “What did you make of that?”

  “Well, she might not have worn any. That seems to be the fashion among young women these days,” he deadpans.

  The courtroom breaks into laughter. Even Judge Suzuki covers a smile. Humor—the best medicine, and often the best persuader.

  “But seriously,” Walker continues, “my initial reaction was that there was sexual activity, and that her killer took the panties because he was afraid there would be evidence on them that could be traced back to him.”

  “Do you mean rape?” Loomis prompts.

  I’m tempted to object, but I let it slide, because I want to get Walker over and done with, and Joe doesn’t do it either, which tells me we’re on the same page. The information will get in, regardless, so why bring more attention to it?

  “Rape is always a possibility, yes, but regular sexual activity is also considered. Particularly in this case, since there weren’t any clear signs that the victim had put up a struggle.” He looks apologetic, almost embarrassed. “This is not a pleasant thing to say, but the most likely scenario is that the victim and her assailant had consensual sex, and that she was killed afterward. Maybe immediately afterward.”

  The air in the courtroom has suddenly become heavier, like the dank atmosphere of a sarcophagus that is opened after centuries of being shut. That the Full Moon Killer might also have been the victims’ lover, and killed them during or right after having sex, adds enormous psychological weight to this trial.

  I look at Salazar, who is listening carefully. If he and these women were sexually involved, you would think his body would involuntarily reveal it. But there is no show of any reaction. If he is innocent, as he swears, I can buy it. Otherwise, the blood in his veins is colder than ice.

  “Did you check the victim for rape, or other sexual activity?” Loomis asks.

  “Yes.” Another reference to his notes. I’m sure he knows the answers—he’s been prepped well—but he wants to be extra sure. One slipup can destroy an entire lifetime of credibility. “Dr. Ramos, the pathologist from our office who was assigned to this case, did that when he did the autopsy.”

  “What were the results?”

  “The conditions of her genitals indicated that she had had sex within a day or two before she was killed. Maybe hours, or less. There was some bruising, but nothing to a level that we could definitely confirm as rape.”

  “Was semen present?”

  “No.”

  “What conclusion do you take from that?”

  “That whoever had sex with her pulled out before ejaculation, or wore a condom.”

  “Which would be another indication that the victim and her killer knew each other.”

  I struggle to my feet, which are killing me. I’m going to have to break down and get shoes a size larger. For a woman whose feet are already banana boats, that’s hard to swallow. “Objection, Your Honor. Calls for speculation.”

  “Overruled,” Suzuki decides without hesitation.

  “That would be a reasonable assumption to make,” Walker answers.

  The prosecution has a tight blueprint. Next up, the cops who found the second body and the criminologist who presided over the crime scene. Another death by strangulation, another pair of missing underpants. No semen left behind. The date, thirty days from the previous murder, in which the MO and other circumstances were identical. A second killing that took place during the full moon.

  Arthur Wong is running the witness. Wong is like me, a promising up-and-comer, though without the night sweats and cravings for anything pistachio. His people want him to get meaningful public face time. Loomis will do the heavy lifting: Cordova, the DNA experts, their key eyewitnesses.

  Wong’s witness is Richard Cavanaugh, the Hawaiian-shirt-wearing undercover detective who was a member of Cordova’s task force. No casual getup today—the detective is dressed in a snappy blazer-and-slacks outfit. His hair is shorter than when I saw him out on the street, and his beard is trimmed. He still wears an earring, however. Let the jurors know they have a real live undercover cop in the house.

  After he took the oath and mounted the witness chair, he glanced over at the defense table, and our eyes met. We had not seen each other since the night before Salazar was arrested, and he obviously didn’t know about my condition. His reaction was a double take right out of Laurel and Hardy.

  Wong leads him through the standard recitation of his bona fides, and he describes the crime scene—the murdered victim, cause of death by strangulation, the missing undies.

  “Were you the lead detective at the crime scene?” Wong asks Cavanaugh.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you notice the similarities between that victim’s murder and the one that took place during the previous full moon?”

  “No,” Cavanaugh answers. “I wasn’t on that case, so I didn’t know about it.”

  “Did the fact that the victim’s underpants were missing raise a red flag?”

  Smart fellow, Arthur Wong. That’s a question our side would legitimately ask. By doing it themselves, they take the sting out of any possible benefit we might have.

  “Not particularly,” Cavanaugh says. “Articles of clothing are often taken from crime scenes, along with other stuff, like purses and car keys, so it didn’t register with me. It wasn’t until later, when the two cases were compared, that the connections began to fall into place. The third one confirmed it.”

  “Do you know who made those connections?”

  “Lieutenant Luis Cordova of the LAPD, Robbery-Homicide Division.”

  “Is he your superior?”

  Cavanaugh nods. “He’s second in command at Robbery-Homicide. He was in charge of the Full Moon Task Force.”

  “Did he coin that term? The Full Moon Killer?”

  Cavanaugh guffaws. “That was a media invention. Anything to sell tickets.”

  I stand at the podium. Cavanaugh can’t take his eyes off me. I have that effect on men.

  “How are you today, Detective?” I ask him.

  “Fine,” he answers brightly. “And you?”

  “Getting along, thank you. How many homicide cases have you investigated in your career?”

  He blinks. “I don’t know. Probably about fifty.”

  “In those investigations, how many arrests were made? Percentagewise.”

  “Over ninety percent,” he answers, managing not to sound boastful. “There are cases we never solve, but we do a good job. I’m speaking for the entire division, not just myself.”

  “And of those arrests, how many resulted in convictions?”

  “Only one murder I have solved did not result in a conviction. When we arrest someone, we generally have good proof. We work with the District Attorney closely. Unless we have strong reasons to arrest someone, we don’t move forward. We bend over backward not to arrest innocent people,” he says piously. “The public thinks differently sometimes, but their perceptions are based on emotional reactions, not proof.”

  “In other words, you have no ax to grind,” I say.

  “None.”

  “And in all those arrests and convictions, isn’t there always a motive? Jealousy, anger, retribution, money, drugs. Even if it’s spontaneous, or random, like a gang-style drive-by shooting, there’s usually some reason, isn’t there? Some motive?”

  Cavanaugh thinks about that for a moment. “I would say that’s true.”

  “So you, and the other detectives on the task force who were trying to find the so-called Full Moon Killer, focused on motive? On why someone would
want to kill these women?”

  Reluctantly, he admits, “We tried to.”

  “Tried to? Meaning, tried to but failed?”

  “Yes,” he admits. “We couldn’t find one.”

  “So as far as you know, there was no connection between these women, besides their living in the same area of Los Angeles and the fact that they were all murdered.”

  “All murdered during the full moon, all strangled, all without their underpants,” he corrects me.

  “Personal connection,” I say, putting an impatient edge to my voice. He knows what I’m talking about, and he’s playing a little game with me. Cops and defense lawyers, natural enemies, like mongooses and cobras.

  “Were there any personal connections?” I come around the side of the podium, so my profile is in full view of him and the jury. “Did any of these women know any of the others?”

  He shakes his head dolefully. “Not that we found. It was all happening fast, and preventing another murder was our main objective. And catching the killer, of course.”

  “Yes, catching the killer. That was your mandate. Catch the killer.”

  “That was our job,” he corrects me again.

  “So just to make doubly sure,” I say. “The police never came up with a motive for why these particular women were killed.”

  “No,” he answers. “The best we could figure out was they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Thank you.” I turn to the judge. “No further questions.” I turn my back on him and walk to our table.

  He’s not going to leave without taking a parting shot. “Ted Bundy didn’t have a motive,” he says to my retreating back. “For some killers, especially serial killers, true psychopaths, the pleasure they get from killing is motive enough.”

  That’s it for the day. Joe and I go up to his office to hash over the day’s proceedings. I fall into a chair in a heap and kick my shoes off. Immediately, I feel better. If I can’t get them back on I’ll walk out barefoot.

  “I screwed up at the end with Cavanaugh, didn’t I?” I lament. “I gave him an opening and he nailed me.”

  “Don’t be hard on yourself,” Joe soothes me. He takes a couple of Diet Cokes from his minifridge, pops the tops, and hands me one.

  “Roberto Salazar is not Ted Bundy, and by the end of the trial the jury will understand that,” Joe says. “You made your point—the police didn’t make a personal connection between any of the victims, and they never established a motive. That’s going to be important down the line.”

  “Thanks,” I tell him. “I needed that.”

  “You’re doing fine.”

  He hefts his briefcase, which is stuffed with nighttime reading, and offers me a hand up. I stuff my shoes into my purse. Low-heeled, backless slides, that’s what I need. I’ll buy a couple pairs tonight. Nordstrom’s is open until nine. I hope they carry women’s size 12.

  THIRTY-THREE

  THE SALESMAN HAS TO dig deep in the back shelves to find shoes that fit me, but he manages to come up with two pairs of low-heeled slides in size 12, which are snug but will do the trick. They are not as stylish as I would like, but I doubt anyone is checking out my feet these days. My belly, that’s all anyone can see.

  I luxuriate in a long, hot bath, then dry off and dig into my organic, skinless, takeout chicken breast. It tastes like a roofing shingle. Tomorrow night, no matter what, I’m going to hotfoot it over to Pete’s Café & Bar after work and have a Hellman burger with garlic-fries, two of the many goodies I denied myself while I was in training. I still am, in a different kind of way, but I can eat things I didn’t eat then. A burger and fries once in a blue moon, the baby can tolerate that. The baby wants Mommy to be happy. Mommy is happy when she satisfies her cravings.

  The phone rings. If it isn’t Joe, I’m not going to pick up. Whoever it is can wait until tomorrow.

  I check the caller ID. Amanda. Calling to praise me for my performance today, no doubt. I can’t duck her. I pick up the receiver. “Hello, Amanda. How are you?”

  I listen; then I start to shake. I reach out a hand to steady myself, and lower my big body into a chair. “When?” I croak. I listen. “Where is she?”

  Salazar’s wife tried to kill herself. She took an overdose of sleeping pills. She’s been on them since her husband was arrested the second time. Luckily, a friend found her in time and called for help. The paramedics took her to Los Angeles County-USC Medical Center, the main hospital for East L.A. She is in intensive care.

  “I can’t go down there,” I tell Amanda. “I’m jammed, and it’s too late.” And I don’t want to. That’s not my job. Defending her husband is my job, and it’s full-time work. Whatever energy I have left over is for me and my unborn child. I won’t be guilt-tripped into taking on any more emotional burdens.

  Amanda can’t go, either. The publicity would be totally negative, totally devastating. She will make sure Mrs. Salazar gets the best medical attention available. She will call me if anything changes. Otherwise, we’ll talk in the morning.

  I hang up. This is horrible. I feel terrible for that poor woman. That she would do such a thing speaks to how desperate and isolated she must feel.

  And something else, something more sinister. Her doing this tells me that she has lost faith in her husband. A devoted wife would not try to take her life. She has been so humiliated, so cut apart from everything in her life, that she doesn’t feel there is any way out. And that is bad news for her husband.

  I’m at the office by seven-thirty in the morning. Earlier, I talked to Amanda. Salazar’s wife is out of danger. The suicide attempt was more a cry for help than a real effort to end her life. Amanda will keep me up to date. She won’t be in court today, it wouldn’t be appropriate.

  “Does Roberto know?” I asked her, when we spoke at six in the morning. “Was he informed?”

  She doesn’t know if he does or not. That will be my first order of business today, before we go back into trial. If he hasn’t been told, he’ll be devastated. If he was, he’ll be more remote and angrier than ever. By his lights, the system has completely fucked him over. Now that cesspool of evil has spread to his family. He has been harder and harder to reach. Now he’s going to dig himself into a hole no one will be able to penetrate.

  Salazar knows. I read it on his face as soon as he is brought into the courtroom. One of his jailers must have told him. They love to rub in the misery. His face is ashen, his expression cut in stone.

  “She’s going to be all right,” I say, trying to reassure him. I had called the hospital to make sure for myself. She will be moved out of intensive care later today, but she will be closely watched to make sure she doesn’t try to off herself again.

  He shakes his head in disagreement. “She will never be all right again,” he contradicts me.

  Shit. Just as I predicted. He’s in a funk blacker than the dark side of the moon. I look around. The courtroom is filling up. We have almost no time to talk before the judge and jury come in. Joe had text-messaged me that he wouldn’t be here until right at the appointed time, so Salazar and I are alone—as alone as you can be when dozens of people, all hostile to you, are watching your every move. That includes Loomis and his entourage, who can’t help but stare in our direction. Obviously, they know.

  “Listen up,” I whisper to him. “This is bad news, but you cannot show that. No one on the jury is going to know about it, they’re not allowed to read or hear anything about this case or you. So if you hang a long face today, they aren’t going to know why. They’ll think it’s because you’re feeling guilty, and they’ll carry that impression through the rest of the trial and into the jury room. So buck up. I know it’s hard, Roberto, but you have to take care of you. Comprende?”

  He stares at me, as if he’s looking through me. Then he gives a curt nod. “I understand.”

  “We’ll get through this. She’s going to be all right,” I say again, as much to hear it for myself as for him. If his wife had die
d last night, there would have been hell to pay. Almost certainly there would have been a postponement of the trial, which could have had all kinds of unknown ramifications. Even this unsuccessful suicide attempt might cause a delay in the proceedings for a few days.

  Joe bustles into the courtroom and flops his briefcase on our table. I had called him earlier this morning to give him the news, so he’s on board. He cocks an inquisitive eye at me, and I nod: yes, Salazar knows.

  We walk away from the defense table and caucus against the wall. “How is he doing?” Joe asks, glancing back at Salazar, who is sitting motionless at the table, his back stiff, as if he had a coat hanger inside his coat. “Should we ask for a continuance until tomorrow?”

  “I don’t think so,” I reply. “If anything, this incident is going to cause him to retreat deeper into his shell. We need to push everything forward.” It isn’t my job to instruct Joe on how to run this case, but I’m going to do it anyway. “I think we should get their witnesses off the stand as fast as we can. Limit our cross-examinations to what’s absolutely necessary, and no more.”

  “Umm,” Joe ponders. “You’re probably right. We’ll play it by ear.” He shakes his head dolefully. “Let’s hope the jury doesn’t find out. I’ve been checking the media. So far, nothing in the papers or radio. Maybe we can finesse it. It isn’t newsworthy unless they connect the dots.”

  “Or someone does it for them,” I say, cocking my head in the direction of the prosecution table.

  “We can’t control that. We do what we can. Don’t worry about the rest, it’s bad for your health.” He gives me a friendly belly pat. “Take care of you. The hell with the rest of them.”

  Judge Suzuki, in shirtsleeves, calls us and the prosecution into his chambers before the jury is brought in. “Are you going to ask for a continuance?” he asks Joe and me. “Any objections?” he puts to Loomis, before Joe can answer. He knows about Salazar’s wife, and he knows Loomis does, too.

  “A day or two, no,” Loomis answers.

  Continuances are given all the time, for reasons important and mundane. A scheduled visit to the dentist is cause to push back. Not a big deal. It will only become a big deal if the reason leaks out.