by Andrew Mayne
“How old are the children?” I ask.
“According to our medical examiner, all are between eight and thirteen. Sex is difficult to determine with certainty on the younger ones, but it appears they’re all boys.”
“How far along is the DNA work?”
“Our labs can answer some specific questions in days, but a broader analysis will take weeks.”
“I have access to a certified lab that can do a lot more, a lot faster.” Helping me solve the Joe Vik case was a laboratory that specialized in doing forensics for the CIA, identifying terrorists—before and after they were blown up.
“We’re very happy with our lab,” she says.
“If you want an outside report, they’d be happy to assist.”
“Thank you. We’ll let you know,” Chen replies. In other words: drop it.
For the LAPD, this is a delicate matter. Not only do they have a yard full of bodies an old woman tried telling them about eight times—the fact that they only showed up when a white guy made the call makes it worse. But the really problematic aspect is that there are seventeen dead children in one backyard and neither the LAPD nor the FBI ever launched a formal investigation until they were found.
I drove by the house before this meeting. I counted twelve news trucks. I didn’t even know there were that many channels to carry the news.
The question everyone is asking: Who was living in the house? Interviews with neighbors are conflicting. There are three different descriptions of a black man seen around, as well as one white man seen less often, but still on multiple occasions.
Chen takes me to the next series of slides. “We’ve found holes in the walls, possibly used for restraints. As well as the locks on the inside of the doors. Our forensics team has picked up some blood in the house, but that doesn’t look like it was the primary killing area.”
“The shed?” I reply.
“Yes. The floor and walls had been painted, but we picked up splatter underneath. We’ve only had enough time to go over a few square feet. Removing blood and tissue from under there takes longer.”
She clicks to a rough-looking section of concrete. “The foundation is three feet thick. We found a crack where blood had been accumulating. This could give us a time line from the kills that we can match up with the decomposition of the bodies.”
As blood trickled into the crack, it created a kind of sedimentary layer for each child that was murdered. In addition to additional blood samples, it’ll give them a secondary time line.
“What about the ceiling?”
Chen clicks to the next slide. The roof of the shed is a collage of Day-Glo splatters. “He didn’t bother to conceal that.”
“He was in a hurry,” I reply. Toy Man was only going to do the least amount of effort he had to so the next homeowners didn’t ask any immediate questions, but not enough to fool a dedicated investigation.
This concerns me. Why was he so sloppy? Lonnie Franklin used an RV for a number of his murders and got less careful as he realized the cops didn’t care about his victims.
The Toy Man was choosing his victims much more cautiously. Leaving this much forensic evidence around suggests he either suddenly became careless or felt he had little reason to worry.
Maybe the fact that we have no idea who he is, even though there are cops standing in his living room, suggests that there’s more to the man.
“That’s pretty much what we have so far, which isn’t much. All we know is what he left behind.”
“What about Artice?” I ask.
“He’s been very cooperative. We’re working on a sketch of what he recalled and trying to reach out to any other children who saw the suspect at the time. We’ll see what the public comes forward and has to say. I suspect we might get another break sooner than later.”
I’m not so sure. Even Lonnie Franklin’s neighbors were hesitant to talk about him. His best friends suspected there was something going on, but they kept their mouths shut.
Part of the fear in this area is that you never know if a murder is just a random slaying or an ordered hit. Talking to the cops could put you on a list you don’t want to be on.
Times have changed a lot in the community since the Grim Sleeper’s heyday, but community-police relations are at an all-time worst.
“What is he?” I ask Agent Sibel. “Do you guys have a profile?”
He shakes his head. “Guys who kill in their own home usually don’t go through all the trouble of making sure the property isn’t in their own name. That’s something a hit man would do. But he doesn’t fit the profile of that. We’ve had zero leads from anyone to that effect.” He shrugs. “We don’t have a clue.”
“What about the way the kids were murdered?” I ask both of them.
Chen replies, “We only have preliminary reports. But in a word: savage. These children were cut apart. But there’s no evidence of sexual violation at the time of death. Perhaps before, but not after or during.”
“Artice says the guy was a molester.”
“Yes. But those may have been separate actions for the suspect. He might have molested them and then killed them later out of guilt or fear.”
Sibel looks like he wants to say something, so I prompt him. “Your thoughts?”
“It’s still unclear. Artice said he and none of the other kids recalled violence—other than when he tried to kill him, which suggests they were separate acts . . . ,” he says hesitantly.
“And that’s where we differ,” says Chen. “I think he may have been grooming boys to be molested and then killing them to conceal the crime, whereas Sibel and his people think that the killing was the primary purpose.”
“Molesting boys without violence but then murdering them as an afterthought?” I ask her.
“Correct.”
I’m not sure if that jibes with the experience Artice described, but I keep my mouth shut. These are the experts.
Chen turns off the slide show. “We appreciate your help in this investigation.”
She says this as if there had been an investigation and I called a tip line. But I let it slide. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”
“Right,” says Chen. “And if you have any other potential leads or ideas, please let me know directly.”
Take it to her. Got it. A little territorial, but that’s not my problem.
“I’ll let you know if my computer models come up with anything else. Of course more data would be useful.”
“Unfortunately I’m limited to what I can share with the public.”
Ah. I’m public. Technically that’s true, but there are also dispensations for bringing in outside experts. She’s made it perfectly clear how she wants me to be viewed.
I should let it go. “Detective Chen, do you know how I came upon the bodies at Wimbledon?”
“I believe Artice reached out to you? Or a friend of his?”
Clearly she skimmed through that part of the notes I gave them. “Not quite. I was contacted by the father of a boy who still hasn’t been accounted for.” I hold my fingers a few millimeters apart. “When I came aboard, the case was this thin. There was zero to build on. But through some effort, I was able to find that house.”
“Through the Toy Man story?” Sibel asks.
“Yes. A rumor.”
“Mr. Cray,” Chen interjects, “we’re very grateful for your help. We’ll make sure you get the credit you are due. In the meantime we’re still trying to see if the killer is out there. Let’s hold off on the awards ceremony until then?”
“For fuck’s sake,” I say. “That’s not my point.”
“What exactly is your point?”
“I have tools. I have resources. I can help.”
“And we have a very capable lab.”
“That’s about twenty years behind the current state of the art. Ask your lab if they have anyone on staff who can do methylation-marker analysis or can build a biome map.”
“We’re first-rate
in forensic investigation,” she assures me.
“I believe you. But I’m talking about tools that will take decades before they’re available to you. I can give you access to them now.” What I really want to say is that I can give them access to me.
“We’ll take that under consideration,” she says, politely telling me to fuck off.
I resist the urge to shake my head. “Did you get any prints off Christopher Bostrom’s bike?”
She shuffles through her notes. “I don’t think we picked that up. But it’s been ten years.”
“And I promise you nobody has ridden it in that time. Please?”
“Fine,” she replies, as if granting me a favor.
Sibel gives her a glance, then decides to speak up. “This hasn’t been in the news, but we have gotten prints from the shed. Lots of them.”
This is the first time I’m hearing it. “And?”
“Zero matches. We’ve checked every database. None. And these aren’t partials. Full prints.”
“So he doesn’t have a record?”
“Not with those hands. Every utility bill. Phone record. Everything. It all leads nowhere. Fake names and fake companies. Bank records, zilch.”
“How does someone manage that kind of footprint in this day and age?”
He shakes his head. “Usually it’ll eventually point back to some law firm or something, but not even that. We know even less than when we started.”
“Not quite,” I reply.
“What makes you say that?” asks Chen.
“How many people know how to do that? That sounds like a pretty big clue, but you don’t need me to tell you that. You got it covered.”
I know I’m an arrogant prick. But I think I fucking earned the right.
Let them carry on. I’m not going to sit on the sidelines, because I know he’s out there and he’s much, much smarter than any of us really appreciates.
Like Joe Vik, he’d been invisible, even though he was killing right in front of everyone.
Now that bodies have begun to surface, his camouflage is showing its weaknesses.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
OVERLOOK
I’m lying on my bed in my hotel room near the LA airport, talking to Jillian, whose face fills the screen of my laptop, backlit by the lights of Los Angeles visible through the window.
Looking at her has a calming effect on me. It’s not just because her dark-blonde hair and small-town-hottie looks make my heart race, it’s also because we’ve been through about the darkest thing you could imagine and have a bond I don’t think any other couple could understand—although we’re not technically a couple. We’re both still trying to figure out what we are together.
I’ve spent the last hour explaining everything that happened so far, guilty that I’ve been out of touch for the past few days.
“So what do you think?” I ask.
“You’re an arrogant asshole,” she replies.
Got to love that woman. She doesn’t mince words. “Other than that part . . .”
“What do you want me to say? You’re full of yourself and you need to head back to Austin and let the real cops figure this one out? Because that’s actually what I’m feeling you want me to say right now.”
“No . . . no . . . I mean. Well? Am I full of myself?”
“Yes. There is no doubt about that. But how many of your smart-guy scientist friends aren’t?”
“Fair point. But we also tend to be full of ourselves about areas we have no expertise in,” I reply.
“Are you telling them how to lift fingerprints or interview a suspect?”
I don’t mention the bicycle because I know what she means. “No. I’m just—”
“Worried that it’ll be Joe Vik all over again? Don’t be. There was only one of him. But be concerned this is some guy you know nothing about.”
“Neither do they. That’s what has me concerned.”
“What are you afraid of?”
Leave it to her to get to the heart of the matter. “They’re going to dig up the bodies, do their tests, and just leave it an open case until something else happens.”
“As opposed to?”
“Being proactive.”
“Like traipsing through the woods in Montana looking for dead hitchhikers?”
“Basically. I mean, I’m sure they’re all competent.”
“There’s a backhanded compliment from the esteemed Dr. Theo Cray.”
“You know what I mean.” She’s sometimes a little too insightful, knowing which of my buttons to push.
“Tell me what I mean.”
“This Toy Man has operated for almost a decade, at the very least. They didn’t even know he existed or that his victims were victims. We find his house, but not only is nobody home, his fingerprints—if they’re his—don’t lead anywhere.”
“And you don’t think they can catch him.”
“I think,” I start to explain, “that if he was catchable, they’d be onto him right now. They seriously have zero leads. Not even false ones. Of course that’s going to change as people who have no clue call in and send them on wild-goose chases . . . About the only thing going for them is they haven’t made public the Toy Man angle to the murders. I’m not sure if that’s the best idea, but it’ll help them separate who’s full of crap from who’s not.”
“What if other witnesses come forward?” she asks.
“They had plenty over the years. And here’s the other problem: this guy’s last victim was a couple weeks ago, but the police aren’t drawing a connection to that kid. It’s like they want to believe that he had his spree, then died or went to prison somewhere else.”
“So you think he’s still in the area?”
I give her a small shrug. “Depends on the size of the area we’re talking about. I’ve been comparing maps of possible incidents with some other data and discovered something interesting.”
“Of course you have,” she replies.
“Don’t make me spank you.”
“Don’t tease. What did the brilliant Dr. Cray discover?—asks the breathless grad student in the tight sweater and short miniskirt.” She sees how this distracts me and starts to laugh. “How did you ever teach?”
“For one, they didn’t dress like that. They looked like homeless people. Second, never mind. Can I explain what I found interesting?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When a predator overhunts an area and runs the risk of the population detecting his methods—like a herd of deer getting preyed upon by a wolf—the predator will ideally have a secondary population it can target . . . if there’s an opportunity to do so. If the herd starts closing ranks, it’ll move on but keep checking back and see if their pattern changes. If the prey situation returns to normal, or if their prey’s reaction made it clear they didn’t even know how to respond, the predator’ll go back to hunting them. In some cases even more boldly, because they’re not cognizant of him.”
“So the Toy Man backed off but kept an eye on the area?”
“Exactly. Los Angeles was just too target rich to write off if he didn’t have to. But I suspect he may have had a B site—an alternate location, either based upon some work or social pattern he had or because he got to pick and choose. The former might create a stronger signal I could find—I mean, he’d be easier to find because he’s not in a place where his actions could be so easily masked.”
“And they didn’t jump all over this?” she asks sarcastically. “Theo, I barely know what you just said, and I was with you when you were searching for bodies and Joe Vik went ballistic.”
“Cops aren’t dumb. Glenn was smart. Way smarter than he let me believe.”
“Yes, but even he didn’t get you. And that may have cost him his life. A lot of lives.”
We fall silent for a moment, thinking of Glenn.
She speaks first. “So are you asking me for my permission to go after him? It’s not mine to grant. Selfishly, I don’t want you to put yours
elf in harm’s way again. But I know you. I don’t think you’d be able to let it drop—especially if he’s out there hurting kids. But . . . ,” she says, “I get the feeling that there’s something else you’re trying to figure out. Another reason why you don’t want to go home.”
I take a deep breath. “Things at OpenSky are a little complicated. If I haven’t screwed things up, there could be a really good opportunity. I don’t know if I want it. But it’s something that would be good for . . .” Here comes the word. “Us.”
She recently spent a week with me, and we managed to do everything except talk about us. I think we were both too afraid to find out if the other still thought this was a fling and didn’t want to bring it to a premature end with too many feelings, too soon.
“Us, Theo?” she repeats.
I feel myself redden. “I was just trying to say . . .” I stall out, attempting to backtrack.
“I like the way us sounds,” she says, sending my heart into a flurry as if I’m fifteen.
“I do, too. It’s just . . . fuck it. If I go after this asshole, I’m going to have to bend some rules. More than I already have.”
“Worse than sneaking into an elementary school and breaking into a school-district office?”
“I neither snuck nor broke into anything. But, yes. I’m going to have to go outside the lines. Like . . .”
“Last time.”
“Yes. And if I get caught, that nice little version of us I’d like to see happen may get complicated.”
I watch her bite her lip as she thinks this over. “Theo, us is me and you. And you . . . well, I’m still trying to figure you out. And I may never fully understand. Sometimes you’re the most thoughtful man. Sometimes it’s like talking to a calculator, and I tell myself I need someone warmer. But then I step back and look at the whole picture, a man who risked his life to find out what happened to people nobody cared about, and I realize that your distance isn’t because you’re far away, it’s because you’re a thousand feet overhead, trying to look at all the little parts, seeing which ones need to be fixed. And even though it kills me when you’re not looking at me, or it feels that way, I love the fact that you’re still trying to put things together—to make them better. And I’d never sacrifice that, even if it meant your eyes were always on me.”