by Bob Hamer
CHAPTER NINE
The forensic technicians had almost completed combing the area for any clues as to the identity of the attackers. One technician videotaped the location documenting the crime scene. Unlike a TV drama, they didn't find hair fibers lodged between loose gravel, readily apparent with the magical flashlights so popular in prime-time. No mystical DNA testing would be completed during the commercial break. It was just a cumbersome examination of yet another site which became one more L.A. crime stat.
The detectives questioned the technicians, but so far the evidence game of hide-and-seek was a failure. The heavy mist washed away much of the trace evidence.
Based on Lydia's brief remarks, Matt and Dwayne walked west on the mountain road. The two detectives walked east. Dwayne took the north side and Matt the south. Each carefully examined the road and the ground below. Matt walked slowly, hoping to find any clue along the two-lane road. Although the illumination truck was helpful for the immediate crime scene, it provided minimal light for the ravines along each side of the road. All four were striking out as they inched along Mulholland.
The answer came about one hundred yards from the scene. Matt spotted loose gravel on the pavement, an obvious sign of a recent disturbance. He looked over the edge and spotted a large object at the bottom of a twenty-foot ravine.
"Hey, I may have something," he shouted.
Dwayne and the detectives rushed over as Matt pointed to the object below. A detective hollered at a patrol officer who ran to the scene. The young officer pointed his Streamlight LED flashlight at the object.
"I think that's a body," said Matt.
Rather than climb directly down the side of the hill, disturbing any potential evidence, the four men walked about twenty yards further and began making their way down the slope. As they moved closer to the object, it became apparent. The situation went from bleak to dismal. The body of a dead girl, her clothes soaked from the rain and her hair matted, lay in the muddy underbrush.
The crime scene just got bigger and the stakes larger. Whoever did this doubled-down with the murder of the minister on the road above.
CHAPTER TEN
Himmler's ankle was badly broken and required surgery, all at taxpayer's expense even though he was a fleeing felon at the time it happened. One of the bones severed an artery and several nerves. The emergency room physician called in a specialist, an orthopedic surgeon, who wanted to operate immediately to avoid permanent damage to the foot. Himmler whined throughout the x-rays and examination. When the word surgery was used, he cried like a baby, threatening to sue the FBI, the hospital, the doctors, even the city for failing to maintain the alleys. A little Himmler went a long way, and his actions evoked no sympathy.
Upon completion of the surgery, Himmler was moved to a private room where he would remain under guard until he could be transferred to the prison ward at Terminal Island Federal Prison in Long Beach. Two probationary agents were called in from a solid sleep to perform the guard duties. One agent was stationed outside the room and one inside. They were permitted to change off at any time, but an agent had to remain in the room at all times. Himmler's left hand was shackled to the bed, but with the leg elevated and several pins protruding from the thigh-high brace, it was doubtful Himmler would get very far should he decide to tempt fate a second time and flee.
DANNY GARCIA AND STEVE Barnett headed over to Himmler's rented house in Van Nuys. The two-bedroom, one-bath stucco was badly in need of repairs. Grass may have grown on the front lawn at one time, but a car on cement blocks stunted the growth of everything but weeds. Better Homes and Garden had no plans of making his residence the cover of next month's issue. Himmler was that perfect white-trash neighbor every responsible homeowner craves!
Because the house was a suspected meth lab, FBI agents from the Evidence Response Team, known as ERT, were called to conduct the search. Dressed in protective jumpsuits with self-contained breathing devices, the specially trained agents cleared potentially contaminated venues. A drunk might mistake the team for alien invaders. Three members of the unit worked quickly and efficiently to dismantle the makeshift lab while others conducted a search of the premises. Danny and Steve remained outside drinking more caffeine than they should in the middle of the night.
When Dwayne and Matt arrived on the scene, the search was winding down. They briefed Danny and Steve on the situation with Flip Mitchell's wife, the dead minister, and the deceased girl at the bottom of the ravine. Danny promised to coordinate with the homicide detectives and keep the FBI updated.
"You guys can go if you want," said Dwayne, "Matt and I can finish up. ERT is doing the collection. We can book it in the morning."
Steve and Danny didn't have to be told twice and cleared out before Dwayne changed his mind.
"We'll both be in early to help with the paper," said Danny.
"Speak for yourself, Sergeant. I'll be in when I get in," said Steve with a faint smile.
"Get there when you can. There will be plenty of paper waiting when you arrive," said Dwayne as the two headed to their cars.
"Dwayne, there's a twenty-four-hour doughnut shop a couple blocks north of here. I'm gonna grab some coffee. You want some?" asked Matt.
"Yeah, black."
Matt returned within ten minutes and handed a cup to his supervisor who responded with a subdued, "Thanks."
There was an extended silence, and Matt sensed the tension. He assumed he knew the reason and after a few minutes said, "You can't blame Flip for being upset back at the hospital."
"Maybe," said Dwayne taking a sip of the coffee. "But we have no jurisdiction in a murder investigation, and my squad certainly has no investigative right to interfere with LAPD. This is best left to the powers above my pay grade to work it out with homicide. I'm not even Flip's supervisor. He didn't need to jump on my case and start making demands of me."
"Dwayne, that was anger and frustration talking. That wasn't Flip. He's a great guy. Let him cool down. Let's see what Danny can get for us, and if asked, we'll drop everything to help out the cops. He's family and we need to be there for him. Don't judge him based on a conversation in the ER."
"You almost sound like a humanitarian."
"I get soft at 3:00 a.m.," said Matt.
The alien invaders made their way out of the stucco dump site carrying several boxes of evidence.
Jennifer Spencer headed up the ERT unit. "Pretty basic lab. Nothing we haven't seen before. Just your everyday, high school chemistry set . . . jugs, bottles, rubber tubing, Pyrex dishes, cheesecloth, and a propane cylinder."
"I'm always amazed how these guys can barely function in society yet can process a complicated formula into a money machine," said Matt.
"Come on, Matt. Even you can follow directions when you want to," said Jennifer. "It's not that difficult. Just follow the recipe. Of course, if you make a mistake, it can mean death rather than indigestion, but that's all part of the cost of doing business."
Jennifer paused briefly, "Did your boy have a girlfriend?"
"Never talked about one," said Matt.
"We found a closet full of women's clothes," said Jennifer.
"Probably a cross dresser," said Matt trying to get a laugh with weak 3:00 a.m. humor.
Matt signed off on the evidence sheet and took possession of the boxes. He thanked Jennifer and her team for their help and promised to try to call them out at a decent hour the next time.
She smiled, "One day closer to retirement."
IT WAS ALMOST 4:00 a.m. when Matt arrived home. Even though he owed it to Caitlin to shower before climbing into bed, he was too exhausted. He brushed his teeth and stripped off his clothes.
She stirred as he pulled back the covers. "I love you," she said without opening her eyes.
"I love you too."
"How'd it go?"
"Not very well."
She sat up in bed as Matt took a couple of minutes to fill her in on the activities of the evening. Before she allowed Matt to sleep, she grabbed his hands and prayed for Lydia and her family. She promised to look in on the family and offered to take personal days from her teaching assignment if Flip needed someone to watch the children while he spent time at the hospital. . . . It was just another reason Matt Hogan loved the most important person in his life.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Almost every high-ranking law enforcement administrator in Los Angeles relished his fifteen minutes of fame. L.A. was a media Mecca. Enough exposure meant a cushy six-figure studio security job in retirement, so the wise administrators exploited every opportunity. This morning was a moment for such exploitation even if the circumstances required the event.
The press conference was being held on the steps of City Hall on North Spring Street. It was the perfect photo op, and everyone in attendance knew it. The powerful image of City Hall, a landmark, was depicted on every Los Angeles Police Department badge and was used as a frequent reference when Hollywood wanted to identify downtown L.A.
Today was one of those mornings when even the smog cooperated. All the local news channels were represented. Their microphones were precariously attached to the podium with the call signs clearly visible for the TV audience—free advertising—as if any viewer really cared.
The city's mayor was politically ambitious and constantly sought accolades from the Hollywood media. As he straightened his tie, he stepped to the microphone and began the press conference.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I have asked the chief of police, the chief of detectives, the captain of the Robbery Homicide Division, and representatives from the community to join me. I am deeply saddened to report, last night Mulholland Drive became the scene of the latest violence to plague this great city. The Reverend Benjamin Hobbs of the Baldwin Hills Evangelical Community Church and a member of the Los Angeles Police Commission was murdered, the victim of a brutal beating and subsequent shooting. A second victim survived and witnessed the attack. We are asking for the public's help in identifying another apparent victim of this attack."
An aid to the mayor began circulating photos of the deceased girl. She had no identification on her person and her fingerprints were not on file. The coroner's office cleaned up the body and took a photo of the corpse; the autopsy was scheduled for later in the day. Detectives surmised she might be another Hollywood throw-away and were combing their records for any clue as to her identity.
BOBBY HIMMLER WAS SECURED to the hospital bed, his left hand cuffed to the rail. He was on a pain medication drip and used every opportunity to empty the IV. At the slightest hint of pain, Himmler hit the button, enjoying the pain and the subsequent relief, all at no cost to him.
Dawn Platt, a shapely twenty-something bottle-blonde pushed the cart in front of the door to the hospital room. As she removed the food tray from the table next to his bed, she looked at the patient. Bobby Himmler. Since she had been told by her supervisor federal agents were stationed inside and outside the room, she wasn't about to reintroduce herself to her one-time cocaine connection. She spied the left hand cuffed to the rail and smiled. Guess he won't be slingin' for awhile. With a tray of dirty dishes in her hand, she walked out without saying a word.
The television monitor lodged in the upper right-hand corner of his room was on, the volume turned up, but only Himmler was paying attention. The FBI agent providing security was engrossed in the latest Vince Flynn novel. When the photo of the unidentified teen flashed on the screen and within seconds the mayor mentioned a reward offered by the city council, a broad smile ran across Himmler's face as he contemplated his "get-out-of-jail-free" card.
"Get me Matt!" he shouted to the probationary agent sitting near the door.
"What?" said the agent startled at Himmler's outburst.
"You heard me, get me Matt or whatever that guy's name is who busted me last night. I want him here now."
"I don't know if that's possible."
"Hey dude, anything's possible. I want that guy here with his supervisor right now, or you'll be guarding J. Edgar's tomb for the rest of your career."
Even handcuffed to a hospital bed, Himmler decided he was now in the driver's seat; he may have been right.
CHAPTER TWELVE
In spite of the fact neither had more than a few hours sleep, Matt and Dwayne reported on time to the newly built Joint Terrorism Task Force off-site. Located in the San Fernando Valley, the off-site was concealed within an industrial complex, and no one outside official government channels knew the really important work being conducted in this secret location. Every precaution was taken to protect the windowless building from physical as well as electronic intrusion. The interior walls were coated with a newly developed substance deflecting every known surveillance device. Even an attempt to record within the building resulted in the conversations being scrambled unless the appropriate equipment was used. It was state of the art, but that didn't necessarily mean cases were solved any quicker. The members of Dwayne's JTTF squad were street-savvy agents more comfortable with traditional investigative techniques than the devices so cherished by those in the "secret squirrel division," as the criminal agents referred to those who worked foreign counterintelligence. Still it was nice to have all the assets available for the "war on terror." Despite what some politicians might posture, it was more than a bumper sticker slogan to those who worked it.
Matt began the burdensome paperwork requirements from Himmler's arrest. Maybe the old West had it right. In a simpler time the sheriff merely buried the bad guys and avoided the reports. Matt finished the FD-302 of the meeting and subsequent arrest and was preparing the affidavit for the criminal complaint he would be filing later in the afternoon. Himmler was in custody and by law had to see a federal magistrate within twenty-four hours. None of this TV garbage where they hide the criminal in lock-up for several days. The Feds required the hearing and failure to do so not only called for the release of the suspect but opened everyone affiliated with the arrest to a civil lawsuit. Matt wasn't about to subject his condo, car, and personal savings to some attorney seeking damages because Bobby Himmler's precious civil rights were violated.
Steve Barnett agreed to book the evidence, download the recording devices, and see that the crystal meth was processed at the DEA lab. Steve conducted a field test on the substance Matt seized from Himmler, and it was sufficient quality to warrant a successful prosecution. Ironically, under the federal statutes, quantity is much more important than quality. A nearly pure sample of a controlled substance which can be stepped on multiple times carries the same punishment as a weak 1 percent sample of the solution. Himmler's meth wasn't the highest quality, and had Matt been a real street dealer, he may have never gone back for a second helping, but it tested positive for the prohibitive substance, and that's all that mattered for prosecution purposes. Matt enjoyed comparing street-level dealers to Caitlin's cooking. Even when she followed a recipe, he never got the same meal twice.
Dwayne was busy preparing a written briefing for Pamela Clinton, the special agent in charge of the Terrorism Division of the Los Angeles Field Office of the FBI. Known to everyone as the Queen Mother, at least behind her back, she demanded to be updated daily by the supervisors under her command. At least with Himmler's arrest, Dwayne had something to write. Terrorism investigations were not always the fast-breaking type cases a kidnapping or extortion might be. Days may go by with little or no progress and it might take the creative writing skills of a best-selling fiction author to make something out of nothing. As Dwayne was putting his prose to paper, the phone rang.
"Dwayne Washington," he answered and then listened. "Calm down. Okay, we'll be there. Tell him to take a Prozac, and we'll come over as soon as we can."
Just as Dwayne hung up the phone, Matt wa
lked into his office.
"Your BFF is making demands already," said Dwayne.
"My best friend?" asked Matt tossing a copy of the FD-302 in Dwayne's in-basket.
"Himmler is demanding to see us right now, claims it's important."
"Think his morphine drip is about to dry up?" said Matt.
"Not sure but let's head over to the hospital and see what he's got."
As the two walked to the parking lot, Steve Barnett was pulling in.
"I got everything booked and shipped off to the DEA lab," said Steve.
"Thanks," said Matt.
"You guys going to lunch?"
"No, the hospital."
"Can I go with you? I wanted to stop in and see Lydia. Flip and I used to work banks together when anyone in this town cared about bank robberies."
"You're welcome to come, but this isn't a social call," said Dwayne.
"Himmler's whining. He claims he has something important. Probably hard evidence proving your unprovoked assault on his ankle last night in the ambulance," said Matt.
"Maybe I'll just pop my head in his room and wish him well."
The three headed to the hospital with Dwayne driving.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Dawn Platt stepped into the restroom hoping Mickey would soon return her call. She looked in the full-length mirror, checking herself before she returned to her hospital duties. She looked good and she knew it. In her mind she always looked good, maybe a little too much makeup, but the men she hung with didn't seem to mind.
The prison psychiatrist called her a narcissist, but what did he know. Her problem wasn't her looks; it was her attraction to the wrong men. She was drawn to the outlaw types—the wilder, the better. She never knew her father. He left months before she was born, but her mother described him as a biker. Her mother said little else about this knight of the open road who ran once responsibility became a reality. Dawn's attraction to the "wild bunch" may have been her attempt to find a man like dear old dad, whoever or wherever he was. She just knew bad men and particularly one bad man, Mickey Donovan, really moved her.