Murder Season

by Robert Ellis

  “Barrera told me that Cobb used to work out of Robbery-Homicide. Something happened, but he didn’t want to talk about it.”

  “I didn’t put it together until last night. When I got in this morning, I went online and started to remember things. Then I made a few calls.”

  “Remember what?” she said.

  “They worked a lot of cases together. They had a lot of success.”

  “Okay, so what went wrong?”

  “They worked together and then they stopped. Seven or eight years ago—around the time Higgins got into politics.”

  Lena tried to make the leap, pressing her memory for a murder case that stood out, but nothing came to mind. Vaughan gave her a look.

  “It was a drive-by shooting in Exposition Park,” he said. “A woman walking her grandson in a stroller by a vacant lot on Western Avenue. I think it was across the street from the library on thirty-ninth. Both were dead before the cops arrived.”

  Lena thought it over. Eight years ago there were a lot of drive-by shootings in L.A. But that probably wasn’t the reason for her faulty memory. Her brother had been murdered eight years ago, and she had taken some time off.

  Vaughan leaned closer, his voice becoming more gentle. “Elvira Wheaten,” he said. “The infant’s name was Shawn. They didn’t walk into the crossfire between two gangs, Lena. They were gunned down intentionally. Wheaten was trying to clean up the neighborhood and had a target on her back. Higgins was running for DA and needed headlines. By then, Bennett was his boy in the office. I’m surprised you don’t remember.”

  “Me, too,” she said.

  “There was an eyewitness. A kid in his early teens. Wes Brown. He helped Cobb and Bennett identify the shooters in the car, but refused to testify against them in court.”

  Something about hearing Wes Brown’s name seemed familiar. After a moment, she realized what it was. The young teenager had made headlines, too.

  “Wes Brown was murdered,” she said.

  Vaughan nodded. “Three months after the trial and Higgins took office. Brown didn’t testify in court. His identity was kept secret. The shooters never knew who made the initial ID, but somehow they got to him just the same. Three months later Brown was dead.”

  “But Higgins won the trial.”

  “It would have been a slam dunk with Brown’s testimony, so he and Bennett had to work harder. I was in the office then. I remember them sweating it out—the trial and the campaign. But Higgins got his guilty verdict, milked it in front of the cameras, and ended up winning the election.”

  “And Bennett and Cobb had a falling out because Cobb couldn’t get Brown to testify.”

  Vaughan nodded again. “Makes sense when you think about it. Bennett’s not the kind of guy who would have cared about Brown’s fear. He probably blamed Cobb for putting their case at risk and jeopardizing Higgins’s campaign. Things happen when there’s a lot on the line. Higgins took some heat when Brown was murdered as well. That wouldn’t help mend any fences.”

  “So, Cobb loses his friend,” she said. “His best connection in the DA’s office.”

  “I think there’s a divorce somewhere after that. Money issues. Darkness.”

  “Bennett didn’t need him anymore.”

  “Until Lily Hight was murdered and Cobb got the case. Then it became the same thing all over again.”

  “Higgins wanted a third term, knew he needed headlines and another big trial to win. And Bennett wanted to look like a hero so he could run four years from now. All of sudden, they needed Cobb again.”

  Vaughan smiled at her. “When you asked Cobb for the murder book yesterday, who’s he gonna call?”

  “Steven Bennett,” she said. “His on-again-off-again new best friend. The guy who can bring him back to the top.”

  “It’s almost the same thing, only this time it didn’t work out. The trial blew everything down.”

  “That and today’s newspaper,” she said. “Where’s your car?”

  “In the garage. Why?”

  “Want to take a drive with me out to the crime lab?”

  “What is it?” he said. ‘What’s up?”

  “I want to take what’s left of Lily Hight’s clothing out to Orth.”

  Vaughan gave her a look and nodded. “Let’s do it.”

  “Meet me at Parker in fifteen minutes,” she said. “Wait in the VIP lot and stay with your car.”

  27

  She could see it now.

  The entire case against Jacob Gant hinged on the DNA evidence taken from Lily Hight’s body and underwear. For Cobb, Bennett, and Watson, the match to Gant convinced them that they had their killer. When the samples went missing in the lab, along with the victim’s panties, Paladino was able to convince the jury that the lab results presented at trial couldn’t be trusted because it was no longer possible to back them up.

  You need verification, he would repeat over and over again. If you can’t verify, then you can’t vilify. And that means you can’t convict.

  Lena had seen the lab reports in Cobb’s murder book. Although Paladino knew how to play a jury, she had no doubt that the semen samples the lab retrieved and analyzed were righteous—no doubt that the semen came from Gant and the results were reliable. But just like everything else, if Gant had been telling the truth, his semen should have been found with the victim. It didn’t necessarily prove innocence or guilt to the beating and murder, and had no meaning other than what it was. Had Lily been raped and murdered after Gant left, everything would have looked exactly the way it did.

  But for Lena, the case hinged just as much on the estimated time of death.

  It was a small window—less than two hours long—with nothing tangible to back it up. From what she could tell, the calculation was based less on science or physical evidence and more on the statements made by Jacob Gant and Tim Hight. The time line began when Gant claimed to have left her and ended when Hight said he found her. The case hinged on that window because both men had been there.

  Lena walked through the basement at Parker Center and gazed through the plate-glass windows into the property room. The storage facility was one of two in the system and had the look and feel of a dilapidated bank. There was a man filling out a form at one of the two tables by the door. Another waited at the counter, watching a female clerk—an old woman—log in his package behind the beige wire mesh. Lena knew that both men were detectives, but didn’t recognize either one as she entered the room.

  No one looked up. Still, she kept her head down and turned her back as she stepped over to the second table and began filling out a property request card. She knew that the evidence was tracked by computer. Anyone paying close attention would notice and could bring trouble for both her and Vaughan. But somehow she managed to push her fears aside.

  She wasn’t looking for blood, semen, or even saliva because they wouldn’t be there. The crime scene photographs indicated that Lily’s jeans and boots had been tossed into a pile three or four feet away from where the victim’s corpse had been found.

  What Lena needed were skin cells. The kind found beneath the surface of the killer’s hands that would have been exposed if he stripped away Lily’s jeans and boots with any force.

  Force was the key issue—the main ingredient—because the cells needed to be alive at the time of the murder. Without force there wouldn’t be enough DNA to detect a transfer.

  As Lena completed the request card, writing the case number down and signing her name above her badge number, she couldn’t help but think about the odds. It might have been the right thing to do, but it was a long shot. Even getting Martin Orth to agree to perform the tests was a long shot. It would mean working in secret, jeopardizing his career and putting himself at risk at a time when the crime lab was under so much scrutiny.

  And for what?

  She should have told Vaughan the truth. She should have told him that what came next was pure desperation. That this is what you did when you ran out of road—hoped
that your victim’s killer had been amped up enough to leave skin cells.

  She turned to the counter and looked at the old woman behind the wire mesh. One of the two men smiled at her as he left the room. The second detective was dropping off an evidence packet. When he walked out, Lena slid her request card through the slot and waited while the clerk adjusted her glasses and entered the case number into a computer.

  “Lily Hight,” the old woman said finally. “Her daddy got the guy. What do you want with this?”

  Lena saw suspicion growing on the clerk’s face, her antenna rising out of what looked like a bad wig. She didn’t need to justify her request, nor did she have any desire to. At the same time, the case could have been flagged and she didn’t want the old woman to pick up the phone.

  “Just cataloging evidence for my boss,” she said, feigning drudgery. “More reports. More paperwork. You know how it is. I was hoping it hadn’t been moved over to Piper Tech. That’s all I’d need today—another drive across town in this heat.”

  The old woman bought it and grinned at her. “Got it, honey. Everything’s still here. I’ll be right back.”

  Lena watched the clerk walk down the long aisle and disappear around the corner. The storage room behind the counter was enormous and it would probably take a while.

  It was the waiting that she found the most difficult. Standing in a room with plate-glass windows and a view of the hall outside. The fact that so many people were walking by. The basement corridor was the quickest route between the building and the parking garage across the street. Lena checked her watch, realizing that it was almost noon. When she looked up, she saw Barrera and Deputy Chief Ramsey and turned back to the counter. When the door opened behind her and she heard Barrera’s voice, the dread hit her in a flash like dragon’s breath.

  “Gamble?”

  She pulled herself together and turned. Barrera was holding the door open with Ramsey behind him in the hall. She didn’t have time to think about what she was still showing on her face.

  “Just wanted to give you a heads-up,” he said. “That piece-of-shit gossip reporter’s out. Dick Harvey. He was released this morning. It sounds like he blames you for his arrest and wants to get even. I wouldn’t spend too much time watching TV.”

  Lena could hear footsteps behind her—the old woman starting back down the aisle. Timing was everything if life. She took a deep breath.

  “Great,” she said. “Thanks for the tip.”

  Barrera took in the room, picking up on something, then shaking it off. Lena was waiting for him to say something like, what the fuck are you doing in here? Instead, he told her to keep an eye out for Harvey, called him a rotten piece of shit again, and closed the door.

  “That the boss, honey?”

  Lena turned around as Barrera and Ramsey walked off. The old woman was standing behind the wire mesh holding an evidence box. She nodded at her and watched as she unlocked the window and pushed the box across the counter.

  “Yeah,” she said. “That’s the boss.”

  28

  It wasn’t a very large box. As Vaughan pulled out of the lot heading for the freeway, Lena cut through the tape with a key and opened the carton. Inside she found an inventory of the contents and checked to see that everything was there. The girl’s jeans, her boots, a belt, and a pair of socks—it didn’t add up to much. A note attached to the list indicated that what remained of the teenager’s other clothing—her T-shirt and blouse—had been frozen and placed in the vault at the lab because both items contained blood evidence from the victim’s wound.

  Vaughan reached the freeway and shifted lanes, steering the car east toward the San Bernardino Freeway. “If it’s possible that the killer’s DNA was transferred to her clothing, why didn’t they send it to the lab before the trial?”

  “I’m sure they did.”

  “Then why are we doing it again?” he said.

  Lena tried not to show any doubt. “Because they weren’t looking for what we’re looking for. Think about what they already had. Gant’s semen. His saliva. Why waste time and money when they already had everything they thought they needed? It wouldn’t have made sense after they locked Gant in. They had their man.”

  “Right,” he said. “I keep thinking that they knew about the lab screwup before the trial, not one week in when it was too late. But this clothing has been handled. It would have been examined for hair and fiber. The lab would have gone over every inch, looking for bodily fluids. After that, it was thrown in this box and sent to storage. What could be left?”

  Lena didn’t say anything; she was still wrestling with the same question.

  What could be left?

  She turned and looked out the window. The air was no longer transparent, the city barely visible through the brown haze. According to a weather report she had heard on the drive into town, the city would break another record as temperatures climbed to 117 degrees. She wondered when the heat would break—and when the case would break.

  The drive out to the crime lab only took another ten minutes. As Vaughan parked, Lena glanced at the sign and admired the building. Officially named the Hertzberg-Davis Forensic Science Center, the new crime lab was set on the campus at Cal State University and housed the LAPD’s Scientific Investigation Division as well as the Sheriff’s Department Scientific Services Bureau. The facility was capable of handling evidence from more that 140,000 criminal cases every year—the people who worked here were dedicated to their jobs. The fact that the evidence went missing in one of the city’s biggest cases was more than unfortunate for everyone.

  Lena hadn’t been out to the lab since the verdict. As she followed Vaughan into the building, she sensed something was wrong before they got through security and reached the elevators. It was the same odd feeling she had experienced yesterday morning as she entered Parker Center. When they found Martin Orth in his office and he looked up from his desk, she could see the concern in his eyes. He glanced at the evidence box she was carrying, then looked back at her. Was it concern? Or was it fear?

  “What’s going on, Marty?” she said.

  He grimaced, pushing his chair away from his desk as he stood up. “Take a look across the hall,” he said.

  Lena turned with Vaughan and gazed through the glass window at the two men in the conference room. Howard Kendrick, the chief administrator of the crime lab, was seated at the table watching the second man pace along the far wall while talking to someone on his cell phone. Lena didn’t recognize him. Although he appeared to be somewhere in his late fifties, it was obvious that he still worked out. He was sturdy and tall with wiry hair that had been dyed an unnatural reddish brown and looked like it might be a piece. His face appeared frozen, his rough skin stitched so tight across his cheeks, she couldn’t get a read on him.

  “Who is he?” she said.

  Vaughan answered for Orth. “Jerry Spadell,” he said in a quiet voice. “A former investigator with the DA’s office. A shadow from Higgins’s past. A goon.”

  Orth gave Spadell a last look, then shut the door and returned to his desk. “He might be with Higgins, but Bennett sent him over.”

  “What is it?” Lena said. “What’s going on?”

  “That story in The Times. They want us to go through the lab again and see if we can find those DNA samples that went missing. It’s all for show.”

  Vaughan leaned against the windowsill. “Kendrick agreed?”

  Orth nodded. “For what it’s worth, I’ve never thought that we actually lost them. Just that someone mislabeled them. That’s why it’s a waste of time. The samples are invisible. You could be staring right at them and still not see them.”

  Lena pushed the evidence box across the desk. “We need a favor.”

  Orth read the label on the carton—his eyes changing as they passed over Lily Hight’s name. When he opened the box, Lena started to say something but he waved her off.

  “I already know what you want, Lena. The timing’s not so good
right now.”

  “It’s a big favor,” she said. “An important favor.”

  He met her gaze, mulling it over. “Let me ask you a question first,” he said finally.

  “Anything.”

  “Yesterday you had one of our guys dust Lily Hight’s bedroom for prints. I’d like to know why.”

  She paused a moment, worried that she might have misread Orth. It was possible that he might not be the ally she thought he was. That he was about to repeat everything Barrera had said to her last night—that she was scaring the shit out of everyone. That her request to dust the room bordered on the ridiculous—and in the end, Steven Bennett was right. Just do the job you were asked to do. Get Hight for the double murders at Club 3 AM, and let go of the past.

  She glanced at Vaughan, then back at Orth. “We had time to kill,” she said. “Paladino was doing a press conference on the front lawn. We couldn’t get out.”

  “But the crime scene was at Club 3 AM, not the house.”

  Lena shook her head. “There’s something about the girl’s room that’s not right. I found things that shouldn’t have been there. And there’s something wrong with her father that has nothing to do with what happened the other night. If I wasted everybody’s time, I won’t apologize because I’d do it again, Marty. If someone has a problem with that—if someone complained—they should have called me, or even Barrera, not bothered you.”

  “No one complained,” he said. “But you might want to stop by the Latent Print Section when you get a chance. I just got a call. They finished up this morning. Your reports should be ready in another hour.”

  Lena studied Orth’s face, suddenly aware that she had missed something important. It wasn’t criticism that the SID supervisor had in mind. Instead, she sensed an undercurrent of support. For some unknown reason, Orth was on their side and had every intention of—

  “What did they find?” she asked.

  Orth glanced at the door, then turned back to her and lowered his voice. “Jacob Gant’s fingerprints,” he said. “All over the room. The closet, the dresser, every handle on every drawer. And they’re fresh prints, Lena. They’re exceedingly clean. No doubt about it—Gant was in that room within the last two weeks of his life. And he was looking for something. You got any idea what it might have been?”