by Baxter Clare
Traffic was minimal, and though she didn’t beat the KTLA news van to Dorsey High, she was still there before Southwest homicide. The sky was graying to the east, but there wasn’t enough light for the news cameras to get good shots. Headlights from three radio units lit an area behind the school. Frank’s heart somersaulted when she saw two patrolmen taping off a section of bleachers on the football field. Half a dozen onlookers, the news crew, and curious cops were trampling the scene. Frank rolled out of her Honda, thankful for the LAPD emblazoned across her back.
Immediately Sally Eisley trotted up to her and Frank held up a warning hand.
“Sally, this is Southwest’s call. I just stopped by to see if I could help. I don’t know anything, and even if I did I would be in no position to say.”
“You just happened to be in the neighborhood at quarter after six?” she asked cynically.
“No, I was on my way home from a jog and picked it up on the scanner. I’m just another curious onlooker.”
“Do you think this could be—”
“Excuse me.”
Frank strolled away and quickly commandeered the scene, ordering two uniforms who were milling around looking at the ground to clear everybody back a couple hundred feet and stay back.
“Who the hell are you?” the burly black uniform asked.
“Lieutenant Franco, Homicide,” Frank answered.
“Do you have your ID, ma’am?” he persisted.
Frank turned on him sharply.
“Hey genius, do I look like I’m dressed for work? It’s at home on my dresser, if you want to go get it for me. I picked this up on the scanner after my run. Now can you get your job done or do you want to let a few more people walk around in here?”
Frank’s deliberate belligerence was only too familiar to the cop. He retreated sullenly, letting the detective approach the bleachers. When she lifted the white sheet, she felt a jolt of excitement.
Slumped between the first and second rows was a naked female, about 5‘4”, one hundred pounds. Frank squinted in the poor light. She looked like she was probably Hispanic, but maybe Caucasian. It was hard to tell around all the bruising. She was wedged on the flooring between the first and second tiers, like she’d had too much to drink and had slipped between them. Despite her ungainly position, it was obvious that she’d been posed. Her legs rested demurely side by side on the first row, arms carefully crossed in her lap. A small pool of blood had seeped out from under the girl’s buttocks, and Frank quickly noted the absence of bruising below the knees or around the face. Frank stared into her dull eyes, wondering what was the last thing she saw.
The posing was a twist, but Frank knew it was him.
You’ve really gone all out this time, haven’t you? Did you stick around to admire your handiwork?
She scanned the people on the edge of the tape. The news crew was standing around, bored and distracted because they couldn’t get a good shot until the body was covered and pulled out. The cops were hanging out by one of the units, talking to each other. Not one of them was talking to the handful of gawkers.
Frank carefully retraced her steps. Addressing two of the cops from their name tags, she told one to start a scene log and the other to check for witnesses. She questioned the responding cop, who said the call came in anonymously. There was no one on or around the scene when they’d arrived.
Inside, Frank grinned wickedly, glad this was going to be RHD’s nightmare. She glanced at her watch, wondering how much time she had left before the real detectives arrived. She decided to risk one more glance at the body and peered under the sheet. Just as she picked something off the body a man behind her asked, “Franco! What the hell are you doing here?”
Frank turned with a slight smile and a handshake for the Southwest detectives. The detective who’d greeted her was a small man in rumpled, mismatched trousers and blazer. His name was Mark Cherry, and his partner, who was half his age and twice his size, was Aidan Gerber.
“Hey. You should be thanking me. Before I got here all those shit-for-brains were walking around in here like they were looking for a contact lens.”
“Okay, thanks,” Cherry said. “Now what the hell are you doing here? And weren’t you in that OIS?”
She repeated her jogging story. Cherry looked under the sheet and whistled. Gerber remained mute. Come to think of it, Frank didn’t know if she’d ever heard him talk.
“She took a lickin’ and stopped tickin’,” Cherry mused. Gerber was writing in a notebook. Frank decided she’d better leave while she could.
“Good luck,” she said to Cherry. He broke away from his study of the body to look skeptically at Frank. Off-duty detectives didn’t just show up at scenes for the hell of it. Frank tried to ease past Sally, but the reporter sidled over to Frank, asking, “Can you at least give me a description of the body?”
“A young female,” she answered. “I’m sure Cherry will tell you more. Or Gerber. Hey, does he ever talk?”
“I don’t think so,” Sally grinned.
Frank was feeling particularly benevolent and she wished Sally luck, too.
“Lieutenant?”
Frank was just about in her car. She turned, guardedly.
“You’re still Relieved of Duty, aren’t you?”
Frank nodded, wondering if there was anybody in L.A. who didn’t know about her suspension.
“Do you think we could arrange an interview to talk about the shooting, I mean, your role in it and how you felt? We’d approach it unofficially, a human drama type of work.”
Oh, sure, Frank thought, that’s what I want—my human drama broadcast to a couple million people.
“Sally, I’m sure you know whenever there’s an officer-involved shooting, there’s an investigation. While that investigation is underway I’m not at liberty to discuss the incident one way or another.”
“You’ve suddenly slipped back into cop-talk on me, Lieutenant.”
“Maybe we can set something up after this is all cleared up,” Frank appeased.
“I’ll hold you to it.”
With a brief and charming smile, Frank said, “I don’t doubt that for an instant.”
Having made her successful getaway, Frank stopped at a diner to think and make some notes while the scene was still fresh in her head. A young man, Pakistani she guessed, poured coffee and took her order. While she was jotting notes, four tattooed cholos sauntered in and took seats at the counter. Her peripheral vision saw one of them swivel in her direction and say, “Pow, pow. Look at the placa.”
Frank ignored him. Duly noting the obvious similarities between the cases, what was intriguing her was the body’s placement on the football field. She couldn’t have asked for a better tie-in to her latest theory. He’d gone to a lot of trouble to get her body onto the bleachers. Frank hadn’t seen any drag evidence on or around the body, so he must have carried her.
You wrapped her up and carried her.
Frank stared at the small piece of fuzz she’d taken off the body. They’d been all over. Frank was sure they belonged to a blanket. She squinted at the fiber. It looked blue. That wasn’t much help in finding their boy right now, but it might help later.
You wrapped her up in a blue blanket and carried her around a high school on the corner of two main drags.
Remembering the morning’s fog, Frank wondered if he’d deliberately used it for concealment. Still, it was a huge risk. The guy must be confident of his physical prowess and his surroundings. He knew exactly what he was doing. There was nothing accidental about this dump. Very calculated, premeditated, and dangerous. It was important for him—a big jump. The others were just practice, like the rapes had been practice before the murders.
Frank’s ham and eggs came, but she just picked at them. She stared out the barred window, the cholos dimly reflected against the dull dawn.
And why’d you choose Dorsey for this big event?
Did he work there? Had he gone to school there, played football ther
e? Because this last move was so bold, she felt the school was important to him. Frank was helpless without her badge, but she’d do what she could over the phone. Later she could use Noah to get them into Dorsey’s records. Hopefully she’d beat RHD there. Even if she didn’t, they probably wouldn’t check into the athletic records right away, and Frank felt that was the place to start digging. She was sure their boy had gone to school somewhere nearby. Given his affinity for the area, it just made sense. Sooner or later he had to pop up in the system.
The cholos had finished eating and were leaving. The one with the big mouth stopped at her booth, saying, “Hey, Blondie.”
When Frank looked up, he leaned in and flashed his sign, hissing, “Rifamos.”
She nodded unconcernedly, keeping her mouth shut as she thought, Yeah, yeah. You rule this shit heap. Keep walking, Essay, or I’ll rule your asshole with a .38.
Frank watched them pile into a Chevy and peel out into Vernon’s building traffic. Her thoughts went right back to Dorsey. The posing fascinated her. She was sure it was critical.
Did you want her to be seen, like a trophy, or was she there to see you? You posed her like a spectator, but for you or for someone else?
The girl hadn’t rigored yet, so she couldn’t have been there for long. If he’d wanted her to see him, to watch him, he’d have given himself more time with her. It was more likely that he’d placed her there for someone else. Who?
Frank envisioned herself on the field in uniform, the noise of the crowd, clapping, calls, whistles.
Who’s watching me? The coach? Family? Friends? The other players? Who am I trying to impress? Girls? Do they laugh at me? Am I shy, ugly, stupid?
Frank didn’t get any feeling that the vie had been posed for a female to see. It was a masculine setting. Players and coaching staff would be the most likely to see her there, and grounds crews, too. The girls were symbols. Props.
I’m just using them…to show somebody something. What? What do I want to show you? And who are you? I’m obviously proving I’m capable, I’m in control. I’m saying, “Look at me! Look what I’ve done!” Who’d be here that I had to prove something to?
Frank stared at her half-finished plate, wondering if the show was for his peers. Not likely, because that would encompass his whole school experience. He was focusing on or around the gridiron. She narrowed his audience to either teammates or a coach.
I’m a big guy, but maybe the other players gang up on me. Maybe they corner me in the shower, use me like a girl, like how I’d use a girl.
Frank sat with that, feeling his shame and rage and humiliation.
No. I’d lash back sooner if it was kids my own age. Uh-uh. I’ve been building up to this, been hanging on to it for a while. This is someone I can’t fight. Someone special. Someone who has power over me. Someone bigger, older. A coach?
A warm kick in her gut told Frank she was on a good track.
What did he do to me?
Frank stared blindly into her coffee cup.
There were so many things he could have done. So many. And I’d have been helpless to do anything about it. Who would I tell? Who’d believe me? And maybe he was my friend…
Frank hunted the room for a phone. She got up and asked the waiter if they had one, holding her jacket open with her hands on her hips. He glanced nervously at the gun under her arm and nodded her behind the counter.
“Behine da door,” he said in a thick accent. Frank cradled the greasy receiver against her shoulder and dialed Noah’s number.
His partner picked up.
“Hey, Johnnie. Is No there?”
“Stuffin’ a big fat donut in his face.”
She heard the phone being passed. Noah mumbled, “Mornin’, Frank. Congratulations. You enjoying your last day off?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You haven’t talked to Fubar?”
“Uh-uh. What?”
“OIS signed off on you. You’re good to go again.”
“No shit?”
“Yeah, he told us this morning. He didn’t call you?”
“I don’t know. I’m not home.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m near Dorsey High. Southwest got a call this morning on the scanner. I went to look. Dead female, teenaged, beat to shit. It was him. Look, is Fubar in his office?”
Noah whistled. “You sure?”
“Absolutely. I’ll tell you about it later, just transfer me to Fubar.”
“‘Kay, hang on.” She heard a click, then the line went dead. She dialed the captain herself. The son of a bitch wasn’t there. After several more tries she eventually managed to track him to a meeting at Parker. She jammed the phone down and paid her bill, leaving the kid a good tip. Frank had worked six weeks as a waitress in college. Next to being a cop, she thought it was the dirtiest service job you could have.
Frank drove home. The blinking light on her answering machine let her know she had two calls. The first was from Foubarelle, telling her to call him. Frank was surprised, and happy, that the second message was from Kennedy, asking if she wanted to have dinner with her.
She did, although her first inclination was to ignore the message, to not call back until it was too late. She hated that she wanted to see Kennedy, was angry at her weakness. If she ignored the feeling long enough, it would fade. With a twinge of guilt she took a quick shower and left without returning Kennedy’s call. At Parker Center she paged Foubarelle from a phone right outside the conference room. He came out looking confused, frowning when he saw Frank.
“You wanted to see me?”
“Not now. I’m in a meeting,” he hissed.
“Sorry. I got your message so I thought it was important.”
She could see he was anxious to get back in, it wouldn’t look good to be gone for long. She added, “Is it about my papers?”
He nodded impatiently. “They came through yesterday.”
Bastard, she thought, showing no trace of her anger. “When can I get my ID and my gun?”
“Later on,” he waved dismissively. “There’s paperwork, too.”
“When later?” she pressed.
“This afternoon,” he whined. “What’s your hurry?”
“My hurry is I’ve been out of work for weeks and I’ve got a lot of shit to do. The sooner I’m back the sooner I can get stats for your meetings.”
“Well, you’re going to have to wait until I’m done here.”
Which Frank did. The meeting broke for lunch then reconvened until four-thirty. Foubarelle was ready to go home, but in her inimitable style, Frank persuaded him to go by the office and clear her for work. Two hours later she walked into the deserted homicide room with her ID securely clipped to her belt and the Beretta snuggled under her arm.
She felt whole again. The day was gone, though, and she still hadn’t gotten back to Dorsey. She wondered how much progress Gerber and Cherry’d made, or whether RHD was on it yet. Dialing the Southwest Division she said in a bored voice, “Yeah, this is 3-Adam-31. I’ve got an alarm going off at Dorsey High. Who’s the EC for this place?”
The desk sergeant gave her the emergency contact number— Milo Davidson, the assistant principal. She dialed his number, introducing herself as a detective involved in the morning’s homicide. She apologized for bothering him at home, but it was critical that she review certain records this evening and talk to whoever coached Dorsey’s football team.
“You don’t think he has anything to do with this, do you?”
“Not at all,” Frank lied. “There are just certain logistical situations I need to confirm with him.”
“Oh. Well, I was just about to have my dinner,” Davidson said glumly.
“Sorry about that. How long will it take you to get to the school?”
“I’m about twenty minutes away.”
“Fine. And the coach’s name and number?”
“Oh, I don’t think I should tell you that over the phone. I mean, how do I ev
en know you’re who you say you are?”
Frank rolled her eyes and suppressed a sigh.
“You’re right. You call him, and have him meet us at the school at,” she glanced at her watch, “eight o’clock.”
“Well, alright. But I’m not certain I know his number.”
“Mr. Davidson, if you can find his number, call him, and both of you meet me at school at eight o’clock. If you can’t find his number, then you meet us at the school at eight o’clock and we’ll call him from there.”
“Oh. Alright,” he said, still pretty glum. “Eight o’clock.” Frank glowered at the huge mound of paperwork on her desk. She had absolutely no justification for continuing with Agoura/Peterson, but then rationalized that Fubar would have let her hang in the wind all weekend anyway.
“I should’ve known I’d find you here.”
Startled, then embarrassed she hadn’t heard her creep in, Frank flashed a guilty grin at Kennedy. “Hey. What are you doing here?”
The younger detective dropped onto the hard couch, throwing an arm behind her head and swinging her feet over the end. Black slacks and blouse made a striking contrast to her inelegant posture. Frank realized she’d never seen her in anything but shorts or baggies and was surprised at how nicely she scrubbed up. Indicating the outfit, she asked, “What’s up with the duds?”
“The what?”
“The clothes. Why are you all dressed up?” Kennedy yawned hugely. “I was in court all day. It sucked.” Kennedy told Frank how the judge had thrown out their search warrant, then asked, “Have you had dinner yet?”
“No. I was going to get some work done. I’m officially back on duty.”
“Alright! That’s excellent! Let’s go celebrate. I’ll buy you a beer.” Frank shucked her head down at the desk. This was exactly what she’d been trying to avoid. She bowed out, explaining about the new body and how the perp had posed it this time.
“I’ve just got this feeling it’s there for somebody to see, and I think that somebody might be a coach.”
“You don’t think he’s still in school, do you?” Kennedy asked skeptically.
“Nope. That wouldn’t support any of our profile. No, I think he’s definitely out of school, at least agewise, but his head’s still there. I’m going to meet the assistant principal in about an hour, talk to him and get into the files. I want to talk to the coach, too. See how long he’s been there, or who was there before him. I want to find all the kids that played for Dorsey that fit our description. I’ll start there.”