by Alton Gansky
“And I thought I was depressed before.” I rose and returned to the kitchen. Jerry had been very careful not to say that Catherine was struggling with OCD, but I could see why it crossed his mind.
“Doc, I appreciate all these answers, but what I need to know is this: is she a danger to herself or others?”
“I don’t know. I wish I did, but since I don’t know what the problem is, I can’t be predictive.”
“That’s not a very helpful answer, Doc,” West said.
“No, but it is a very honest one.” Jerry looked at me. “I will say this. There have been those who link OCD with certain crimes as well as BPD, borderline personality disorder.” He paused. “One psychiatrist said Jeffrey Dahmer showed symptoms of OCD. I wish I could be more help. Perhaps you should talk to a criminal psychologist instead of a pediatrician.”
“I might do that, Doc. I just might do that.”
I carried the teapot to the table. Jerry jumped up and grabbed cups. “Didn’t you tell me that you couldn’t find gunpowder residue on Catherine or her dress? Why are you still acting like she’s a suspect?”
“I don’t think she pulled the trigger that killed Andy Buchanan,” West said.
“That’s good. It doesn’t make sense to think she did.”
“Maybe not to you.”
Chapter 25
When the sun rose, it found me awake and staring at the ceiling. Last night ended quickly. West drank a cup of tea more out of courtesy than desire. It was clear that his mind was elsewhere. He apologized again for not seeing Catherine to the door. The fault was not his. He had been lied to. Nonetheless, he shouldered the blame.
Jerry sat with me for another hour, and we did our best to make small talk but we failed miserably. The ability to focus is one of my strengths, but the utter shock of the last two days had pirated away my ability to marshal productive thought. Mostly I stared at the table and worried about Catherine. The sounding of Jerry’s cell phone hauled my weary mind back to the present. I watched as his face drew long and dour.
“I have to go to the hospital,” he said and rose.
I read his face. “The boy?”
“Yeah. He’s taken a turn for the worse.”
I saw him to the door, locked it behind him, and started to reset the alarm. The sight of it made me stop. I decided to leave it off. Instead of sleeping in my bed, I chose to leave the lights on for Catherine and to sleep on the sofa so I’d be sure to hear her if she knocked.
At best, I dozed off and on. The lights bothered me. Every sound outside made my heart lurch. And my mind would not stop fabricating tragedies with Catherine at their center. At 4:00 a.m. I knew she wasn’t coming, but I waited anyway. At five I rose, took a quick shower, and dressed for work. At six, I made breakfast. At seven I left. Everything in between was a blur.
I arrived at the office uncertain what the day held. I spent the night fluctuating between worry, confusion, and prayer. I prayed for the phone to ring and I prayed it wouldn’t, fearful of the bad news that might be waiting on the other end. It was a late-night phone call that had informed me of my husband’s murder. That was years ago, but such scarring doesn’t disappear over time. Then I prayed that Catherine would ring my doorbell. She didn’t. In the wee hours my prayers dissolved into wordless utterances and those were the sweetest of all.
I took the long way to the office, stopping for a latte at a new coffeehouse. With coffee and a cranberry scone in tow, I returned to my car and to the road. The coffee was wonderful, but I never got around to the scone. Hunger was missing in action.
The clock read seven thirty when I strolled into the lobby and drifted like a powerless ship to the office wing that normally made my blood move faster. The cubicles were empty. By eight, however, aides, secretaries, and employees from various departments would be zipping through corridors and firing up computers. I set a course for my office, entered, and plopped down in the desk chair.
On the desk were messages from yesterday, today’s calendar, and two newspapers. I set the coffee down, started the computer on the credenza behind my desk, pushed the message slips aside, and opened the paper. I was beginning my daily routine. It seemed an odd, even selfish thing to do, but I wanted it—needed it.
I set aside the LA Times and opened the Register. Two articles immediately caught my attention, both below the fold. “Register Reporter In Coma” the title above one article read. The byline read “Vincent Branch, Editor.” The article was short, rehashing the auto accident and the missing guardrail, and giving a brief vita of Doug Turner’s work with the Register. I pushed a tear from my eye and reminded myself that at least the article was on the front page and not the obits. There was no mention of the boy injured by the driver who drove through an intersection where once a stop sign had been. They had not made the connection. For that I was thankful.
The second article was very short and clearly had been added at the last moment. No doubt tomorrow’s paper would have a thousand words beginning above the fold. The headline proclaimed, “Second Murder at Starlet’s Home.” Short as it was, it had the six friends of every journalist: who, what, when, where, why, and how. The words were simple but the reading was hard.
I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. I so wanted to sleep, not just because I was weary, but because I wanted to escape. I have prided myself on my fortitude, my strength under pressure, my ability to focus no matter how loud and intense the distraction, but this morning my thoughts were controlling me. They bounced like Ping-Pong balls. Where was Catherine? Who was killing people at her home? Was she mentally ill? Was she involved in the murders? Does she know the killer? Is she the third victim? Those should have been enough questions for any mortal, but I couldn’t help asking who was stealing guardrails and stop signs and making our streets unsafe? Would Doug live? Would a child whose only crime was walking to school ever be the same? Could his family be repaired? And what of the poor woman who hit him?
“Napping already?” The words followed a gentle knock on the open door.
My eyes snapped open and I jolted in the chair. Tess stood in the doorway. Someone was with her, standing just behind and to her left. “I wish,” I said. “Just lost in thought. You’re here early.”
“I thought I’d grab a few minutes of your time before the hordes arrived.”
“Come in and have a seat.”
Tess plunged into the room, a man close behind. He was no taller than Tess, had olive skin, and wore a brown sport jacket around a barrel chest. He gave a polite nod as he entered and took the other seat in front of my desk.
“This is Detective Adrian Scott,” Tess announced. “He’s been assigned to investigate our little problem.”
“Little problem?” The phrase irritated me. Of course, I was so edgy that the beating of a hummingbird’s wings would annoy me. “There are two people in the hospital because of the ‘little problem.’ Dr. Thomas was called to the hospital last night because the boy has taken a turn for the worse.”
“It’s good to meet you too, Mayor,” Detective Scott said.
Already, I disliked the man. We sat in silence for a moment. Scott fidgeted, Tess bore a hole in me with her icy stare, and I was wondering if I had lost my mind.
“I’m sorry,” I said, ending the standoff. “It’s been a rough couple of days.”
“I heard about the murder,” Scott said. “Two at the same home.” He shook his head.
“Murder?” Tess said.
“Last night,” I explained. “A man was killed at Catherine Anderson’s home. Detective West is looking into it.” I didn’t see any need to go into detail.
“West is a good man,” Scott said. “I suppose we should enjoy him while we have him.”
I nodded. “Yes. You’re right . . . What do you mean while we have him?”
“The Denver PD has made him an offer. I know I couldn’t turn it down.” Scott gave a little laugh.
“He’s considering going to Denver?” The news rocked
me like an earthquake.
“They’ve offered him a lead detective position. Much more prestige, much bigger bucks.”
“He’s lead detective here,” I countered.
Scott picked up on my attitude and did a verbal backpedal. “Yes, ma’am. He is.”
His mouth was silent on the issue but I could read the unspoken phrases. He’s the lead homicide detective in a homicide division of one person—himself.
I beat my emotions back and leaned over the desk. “I’d hate to see him go. He’s been an important addition to the force.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Scott said. “He’s taught me many things.”
“Well, I don’t suppose you’re here before office hours to talk about Detective West.”
“No, we’re not.” Tess clipped her words. I had done it again. “I’ve asked Detective Scott to brief you on the situation as it stands. He came on shift early to do so.”
“I appreciate that,” I said. “What have you learned?”
“Deputy Mayor Lawrence has been turning up the pressure on us to discover who’s behind what we first thought were pranks. Of course, with the two serious injuries, it is no longer a matter of pranks. If either victim dies, we’ll be looking at far more serious charges. At Deputy Mayor Lawrence’s insistence, I conducted a deeper survey of the extent of the crimes. Working with public works, I’ve revised her list. As of last night, twenty-two stop signs, six yield, two dip, and two slow curve signs have gone missing. The problem began a month ago.”
“If memory serves that’s two more stop signs. Is that right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Scott said. “Two more were reported last evening. Still on the list are four fire hydrant caps, one manhole cover, and three segments of guardrail. Everything has been replaced.”
“So the problem continues.”
“Yes,” Tess said. “Chief Webb has put as many officers on the street each shift as he can. We believe the thefts are happening late at night or in the early hours of the morning. I have talked to the principals of every school in the district and asked the superintendents of neighboring districts to do the same. There are a couple of other things you should know.”
“Oh?”
“We believe that the perpetrators are local. No other police agency in the region is having the same problem. Also, whoever is doing this is tool savvy.”
“What do you mean?” I pressed.
“In some cases signs and even guardrails can be removed with simple hand tools. But the public works department has been retrofitting signs with bolts that require special wrenches to remove. In about a third of the cases, a saw had to be used to remove the sign. In several cases, they sawed right through the pole. I’m assuming it’s faster that way.”
“What kind of saw would they need?”
“A cordless reciprocating saw would do the trick,” Scott said. “With the right blade, that is.”
“I’m not familiar with a reciprocating saw,” I said, although I remembered someone using the term earlier.
“You’ve probably seen one. They come in twelve-, fourteen-, and eighteen-volt versions and are battery powered. A single, changeable blade sticks out front. They’re used in the construction trade to cut through wood, drywall, and even metal.”
“So these kids are unbolting what they can and cutting what they can’t?”
“Exactly.” Scott was becoming more animated. “But I wouldn’t call them kids. They have to be old enough to get their hands on such a tool and know how to use it. I’ve contacted the high schools and colleges that have shop classes. None report stolen tools.”
“They might be using a saw belonging to their parents, or perhaps even have bought their own,” Tess suggested.
“But why?” I asked, not expecting an answer. “Surely they know the danger they’re creating.”
Tess turned to Scott, and he to her as if silently arguing about who got to speak next.
“Detective Scott found something yesterday.”
“Oh?” I looked at him.
He took a deep breath. “This is going to be hard to believe, Mayor, but it’s as true as me sitting here. While investigating one of the scenes, I found a video setup. They’re recording the events or at least some of them.”
“What? Why would they do that?”
Scott pressed his lips together. “I can’t be sure, but I’ll bet this month’s salary that they’re compiling video footage and plan to sell it.”
“Sell it to whom?”
“To the same kind of sick minds that can conceive of this kind of thing,” Tess said. “Do you remember a few years ago a pair of young men paid homeless men to fight each other and do other nauseating acts? They preyed on the desperation of the homeless. They videotaped everything and sold it over the Internet.”
Scott interjected, “They were arrested and faced several felony and misdemeanor charges.”
“People actually bought that kind of footage?” I asked.
“They made a lot of money,” Scott said. “I think we may have something similar here, but a little more sophisticated.”
“How is it more sophisticated? It sounds like the same barbaric behavior.”
“Not more sophisticated in content, but in execution. In the street-fighting case, someone stood around with a camera. It’s hard to prove you’re not involved when your buddy is filming you paying the men to fight. What I found were inexpensive cameras hooked to a power supply and a small transmitter. I don’t have the recorder. I assume it’s hidden somewhere where it can be easily retrieved.”
“I’m . . . shocked.” It was all I could think of to say.
“In a way, this is good news,” Scott said.
“I don’t see how,” I admitted.
“That’s why you’re mayor and I’m a cop.” Scott surrendered a friendly grin. “The good news is that we’ll be able to charge the perp with a higher crime if we find the recordings in his possession. By placing a camera at the scene it shows that the nutcase was looking for an accident to occur and therefore contributed to its cause. It’s going to be much more difficult to plead, ‘It was just a prank. I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt.’”
“So, whoever is doing this knows how to use tools and is familiar with electronics.”
“That’s right, Mayor,” Scott said.
I studied Tess for a moment. She had something rattling around in her brain. “What’s on your mind, Tess?”
“It’s time to go public. You need to hold a press conference.”
“A press conference?”
“Yes,” Tess said. “We can’t watch every stop sign or supervise every guardrail. Someone is setting up accidents for their own profit. We need to let the public know so they can not only be alert to the problem but also keep an eye out for suspicious behavior. Ask the citizens to help. I was hesitant at first, but it’s time.”
Scott shook his head. “I’ve already told Deputy Mayor Lawrence that I’m opposed to the idea. I want to catch this guy. It’s going to be much harder to do if he knows the whole city is looking for him.”
“It’s not unusual for the police to ask for public help or to issue a warning,” I said.
“With all due respect, Mayor, it’s not unusual for them not to involve the public. The police should decide such matters. In this case, Chief Webb should make the call.”
“I see your point,” I said. I saw a deep frown pinch Tess’s face.
Scott seemed pleased. “That’s good, Mayor. I’ll tell the Chief that you see it our way.”
“No, you won’t.” I rose. Tess and Detective Scott followed suit. “Your argument is logical but not convincing. My priority is the safety and well-being of our citizens. I want this guy behind bars as soon as possible, but I’m not willing to see another child hit by a car or another citizen roll his or her car down some ravine.”
“But, Mayor—”
“Tess, will you set up the press conference?”
“I will.” The frown was
gone.
“I want you there. I want the public to know who their champion has been.”
Scott tried again. “But, Mayor, if you’ll only listen.”
“Thank you for filling me in, Detective Scott. You have my complete support in your investigation—although you probably don’t believe that at the moment.”
“No, ma’am. I don’t.”
Chapter 26
I was on the phone with Nat when Chief Webb plowed into my office like a runaway ship crashing into a pier. His face was a dark red, his shoulders pulled back, and his jaw so tightly clamped that I expected to hear teeth shattering any moment.
He arrived with such force my heart seemed to bounce around in my chest as I pushed back from the desk. “Um, I’ll have to call you back, Nat,” I said and hung up. Webb was breathing in gulps, sucking air through his teeth. I stood and looked at Floyd who had followed him in. It was his job to show guests in, an impossible task in this case. “Close the door behind you, Floyd.” He got the idea.
“Won’t you sit down, Chief?” I noticed that he had an envelope in his hand.
“No, Madam Mayor, I will not. This will only take a moment.” He tossed the envelope on my desk.
“What’s this?”
“It’s my resignation,” he announced, his voice just a few decibels below a shout.
I opened the letter. It was short and neatly typed on police letterhead. I read it aloud. “‘Whereas I no longer feel able to lead the fine men and women who make up the Santa Rita police; and whereas my authority is continually undermined by city hall; and whereas my opinion and leadership is routinely ignored, I hereby tender my resignation effective at close of business this date. Signed, Chief William
“Bill” Webb.’”
“Well?”
“That’s a lot of ‘whereas,’ Chief.”