by Baxter Clare
Frank pushed it aside and draped a long leg over the sill. She was in. She stood still for a moment, breathing silently, and listened for sounds in the house. A clock ticked. The refrigerator hummed. Frank padded across the carpet to check the kitchen. Then headed upstairs, making some of the steps creak. She looked in Mrs. Delamore’s room first, verifying that Mrs. D. hadn’t left a lover curled up in the warm sheets. The bed was empty. So was the bathroom and the sewing room down the hall. Only Clancey’s room was left.
What Frank was doing was highly risky, extremely unethical, and completely outside the law. And she was loving every minute of it. Retracing her steps, ears tuned to the subtle sounds of the house and the waking neighborhood, she paused at Clancey’s door, noting the keyhole. She tried the knob. It was locked.
Frank yanked the knife from her jacket pocket. Prying out its longest blade, she slid it between the lock and frame, her shoulder to the door. Her father had shown her how to do this with a credit card when they’d locked themselves out of their apartment. These days, house locks were much more sophisticated. But this was just a simple inside lock, and the door swung open.
Frank quickly took in the room, setting the timer on her watch. Twenty minutes max. Clancey’s room was a welter of chaos, but Frank headed straight for the VCR. Turning the volume off she ran an unlabeled tape already in the machine. Low budget kiddy porn. Nauseating, but encouraging. She tried another unlabeled one. Fast-forwarded. Same stuff. With an eye on the open door she pulled out a tape in a well-worn box.
Lu-Lu’s Love Festival had obviously been replaced by a homemade video. Looking through a windshield, the camera narrowed on in three young Hispanic girls playing at a picnic table in a park. The shot was too narrow to be certain, but the chaparral in the background was similar to that at Leiderman. Frank didn’t recognize the girls.
She glanced at her watch. Eleven minutes. She stopped the tape and searched for another frayed box. Delight of Venus started the same way as Lu-Lu’s Love Festival, a far shot of three girls sunbathing taken though a windshield. Frank searched the background, damn sure she was looking at the reservoir near the top of Kenneth Hahn. She fast-forwarded, backing up as the firmer decided on a panoramic shot. Definitely Kenneth Hahn. Frank’s heart was thudding in her ears.
Eight minutes. She fast-forwarded until the camera zoomed in on the girls. Barely breathing, Frank rewound the tape. She paused the tape as one of the girls turned her face toward the camera. Frank bent closer to the TV, trying to be certain. Because of the fuzz from the freeze frame and the distance from the camera, she couldn’t swear it, but the girl frozen on the screen looked eerily similar to Jessica Orenthaler. Frank swore silently, wishing she could remember all the details about Orenthaler’s assault.
A car door slammed loudly and Frank started. She ejected the video, slipped it back into the box, and dropped it inside her T-shirt. Straining to hear, she arranged the videos to hide the gap, switched off the recorder and TV, and turned the volume back up.
Three minutes. She’d blown all her time on the videos and she still wanted to get into the green-carpeted room in the garage.
Frank closed Clancey’s door almost all the way and jogged downstairs. She didn’t see the Fiesta in the driveway and doubted she’d have missed the sound of the garage door opening, but she peeked carefully into the dark garage. If she was caught here she was fucked. Her timer went off and she muffled the sound against her stomach, feeling the hard video trapped at her waistband.
Opening her knife again Frank dashed across the concrete floor and tried the door. Of course it was locked. Drops of sweat fell onto her ribs as she worked the knife around, hissing, “Come on, baby, come on.”
This lock was older than the one upstairs, but sturdier. Frank couldn’t press the catch back, and as she pulled her knife out she heard a garage door whir open. She bolted back into the kitchen just as she realized it was the garage next door. Giddy and giggly with adrenaline, she grinned at her mistake.
Minus five minutes.
Frank sprinted up the steps and into Clancey’s room. She searched the nasty contents of the drawer in his nightstand but couldn’t find a key. He probably kept it with his bedroom key, which he’d probably keep with his car keys.
Minus nine minutes.
Frank waded through the wreckage of Clancey’s room across to his closet. The football uniform was where Kennedy had said it was. Number eighty-one. She searched it quickly for blood stains. A number of spots could certainly have been dried blood. Without a test, though, it was impossible to say for sure. Frank turned and froze.
The garage door rumbled again. This time she was sure it was the Delamores’. Frank calmly picked her way out of the room and closed the door behind her. She twisted the knob. It was locked. Frank’s senses were firing at full alert. Her brain fielded the messages coldly and clearly.
Down the stairs. The car in the garage. Across the living room. Car doors slamming. Mrs. Delamore’s voice. Whiny, angry. The drapes. The window. Still open. Her voice in the kitchen now. Was Clancey behind her or ahead? Probably behind. Drapes aside. No faces in windows. One leg out—Frank peeked through a gap in the drapes just as Mrs. Delamore stepped into the living room—easy. Mrs. D. still talking. Next leg. Go!
Frank hurled herself at the fence, knowing they must have heard her slam it. She cleared the six-foot planks easily, amazed as always by the potency of adrenaline. Waiting for someone to shout at her, Frank walked quickly toward her car. Off the curb. No one screaming. No one in sight. Door open. Key in ignition. Motor. Clutch. Outta here.
Frank was sure she hadn’t drawn a breath since she’d heard the Delamores’ garage door open. Two blocks away she breathed down, down, down into her belly, and exhaled with a bellowing roar as she added a fist mark to the Honda’s battered ceiling. She was pleased her plan had gone so well, but she would have liked more time inside, specifically in that room off the garage. It was possible Clancey could have transferred fibers from the room to the girls, but it made better sense that the girls had been in there with him. He had to have kept them somewhere. That seemed the most obvious place.
The morning’s machinations and two large cups of coffee had left Frank wired. She weaved around the growing lines of cars, anxious to get home and watch Clancey’s tape. She felt pretty confident he wouldn’t miss it. He’d probably be watching what she believed were the tapes of Agoura and Peterson, not his older, less exciting tapes. Frank stopped at a deli on Huntington. She ordered a double Black Forest ham sandwich with muenster and mustard on dark rye, and picked out a large bottle of English bitter ale.
Once home, she plopped her food on the coffee table and pushed Clancey’s tape into the VCR. But first she needed a quick shower to get rid of her stale sweat. Then, wrapped in an old, unraveling bathrobe, she hit the rewind button and pried the cap off her beer bottle. She held a sip of the ale in her mouth, its effervescence tingling sharp and clean.
Frank perched on the couch, hitting the VCR’s remote play button. The tape was dark for a moment, then opened with the reservoir scene. She unwrapped the sandwich and tore into it ravenously, never taking her eyes from the tape. Occasionally she paused or rewound it, sure she was watching Jessica Orenthaler sunbathing innocently at the top of the Kenneth Hahn Rec Area. Frank chewed around the thick sandwich as the girl spoke with her companions. When she got off her beach towel and started walking toward the parking lot, the tape went blank. Frank let it roll, wondering if she could get Jessica to confirm the tape for her.
Unexpectedly, the tape came back on. Frank glanced at it and stopped chewing. The scene was dimly lit, taken inside what looked like a small room. The angle indicated that a tall person was holding the camera, pointing it down toward a terrified young woman bound to an easy chair.
Swallowing hard, Frank put the sandwich down. The girl was unmistakably Melissa Agoura. She was wearing a red-and-white football jersey, number eighty-one, over bell-bottom jeans. Her feet were bare an
d strapped to the legs of the chair with what looked like duct tape. Her hands were taped together in her lap, her torso tied firmly against the chair with repeated lengths of rope. Frank thought it looked like clothesline. Fat strips of tape covered Agoura’s mouth. Above it, her eyes were wide and dark and terrified.
Frank assumed Clancey was holding the camera. She could hear his breathing, choppy and heavy. He must have been shaking, because the filming was jiggly. Agoura whimpered faintly against the backdrop of his heavy breath. Frank paused the video, uncertain she wanted to see more. She stood up and paced for a moment, unconsciously rubbing the back of her neck. When she stopped, she stared at the scene frozen on her TV.
“Jesus,” she breathed, suddenly overwhelmed. Dropping into a chair next to the TV, she carefully sifted though her ideas. A defense attorney would try to dismiss the tape; there was no proof Clancey was holding the camera, no proof he’d murdered her. Yet. Frank wondered what else was on the tape. Regardless, what there was made a strong link. The defense would have a hard time wiggling out of the connection. For Frank, however, there was no doubt.
“Gotcha,” she whispered. She was surprised that the word sounded hollow. She’d expected a sense of triumph but felt deflated instead. She finally had him, just like she wanted, but her victory was empty: the cost of all the lives he’d ruined greatly outweighed her own small success. Frank mashed her eyebrows together for a minute, thinking. At last she sighed. Clearing her half-eaten sandwich off the table and walking into the kitchen, she poured the suddenly nauseating ale down the drain.
She dreaded looking at the rest of the tape but knew she had to. She should make a copy, too. She could do that at HQ tomorrow. The copy would go to RHD along with an anonymous note. But Frank couldn’t let them sit on it. She had an idea of how to handle that, too. Tomorrow.
Acutely aware that she was shoving aside her feelings by thinking like a cop, Frank returned woodenly to the living room, where Melissa Agoura was frozen on her television screen.
“Well, well, Lieutenant. I must say I was surprised to get your call. I didn’t think you’d keep your end of the bargain without a battle.”
Sally Eisley flashed scary white teeth at Frank, who pressed what she hoped was convincing affability through her layers of fatigue. Immaculately made-up and dressed to the tits, Sally blended well with the rest of the clientele. In the background, the Italian boy singers alternated with big band songs. The distinctive clicks of crystal and china filled the restaurant as naturally as the sound of cars humming home on the freeway.
Frank’s antipasto sat untouched, and she caught herself twirling her wine glass. She stopped. It had been a long day after a long night. The red wine reminded Frank of her restless sleep, interrupted by glimpses of Mag, then Agoura, wrapped in Clancey’s chair. Tunnel was there, too, in the dark room, and then he was Clancey and coming at Frank, who was tied into the chair. Instead of a broom he had a broken wine bottle. Blood kept spilling out of its jagged neck. Frank was amazed how one bottle could hold so much blood.
Sally carefully arranged her skirt. Frank blinked slowly against the dream. She restrained herself from swallowing her wine in one long draft and, instead, held the bottle over Sally’s glass. “May I?”
“Certainly.” Satisfied with her pose, the reporter casually draped an elbow on the linen tablecloth and inquired, “To what do I owe the honor?”
Frank finished pouring, then admitted, “I’ve got something for you. Something I think you’re going to like a lot more than my pitiful little bio.”
“Don’t be so modest, Lieutenant. It doesn’t play well on you.”
“I’m serious. It’s about the Culver City Slayer.”
Sally momentarily lost her meticulous composure, and Frank saw a hungry little girl who’d never gotten enough of something. A waiter glided to their table and bowed slightly at Sally. She didn’t show it, but Frank knew Sally was charmed by the obsequious service. The waiter spoke only after Frank had acknowledged him, patiently detailing the evening’s specials. At Frank’s suggestion, Sally opted for the porcini ravioli, while Frank ordered the osso bucco. The waiter departed, their order in his memory, and Sally turned on the detective with undisguised glee.
“So what do you have for me?”
Frank lingered over a sip of the dark wine. On the surface she was aware of teasing Sally, but underneath the artful police work, Frank was reluctant to begin. Sighing deeply but inconspicuously, Frank highlighted the Agoura and Peterson cases.
When the waiter presented their plates, Sally impatiently asked, “Why are you telling me all this?”
Frank assured the waiter they were satisfied, then carefully explained how the cases were connected. Without offering Clancey’s name or specific details, she laid out the evidence against him.
“You know these cases are being handled by Robbery-Homicide now. They have all this evidence and they’re just sitting on it. These girls are not a high priority for them, what with Woodall still not closed and then Marker getting bumped yesterday.”
A sitcom personality had been found in an alley, whacked in the head and robbed. All the people in their gated communities and alarmed cars were in high panic about it because it had happened to one of them. Frank ignored her meal, leaning in close to Sally as if to confide in her.
“Honestly, I don’t expect you to give a damn about these kids either. But what is news, and what’ll get you ratings, is exposing the fact that a two-bit comedian’s accidental death is more important to the police that your viewers pay taxes to than the planned and deliberate deaths of at least four young girls. RHD could move on this right now, but the death of a celebrity cokehead is a greater priority than multiple deaths of the average citizen’s child.”
Frank watched the story playing in Sally’s eyes, knew she had her. Even though she wasn’t hungry, Frank forced the tender veal down, letting Sally think. Finally the reporter’s eyes narrowed and she said, “So you want me to cover this to force Robbery-Homicide into action?”
Bluntly Frank answered, “That’s my angle, yeah.”
“Why? It’s not your problem anymore. Are you using me to settle a score? I want to know.”
Frank shook her head and dabbed at her mouth with the heavy napkin.
“You know, Sally, I’ve been a cop for almost seventeen years. I’ve seen the worst that you can imagine and then some. But there’s a man out there, with no remorse and no compunction, who is stealing girls off the streets. He hurts them. He rapes them. And then painfully…knowingly…savagely,” Frank paused a beat, “he kills them. And he loves this. More than anything. And because he loves it, he’ll never stop. He’ll go on raping and hurting and killing, and he’ll only get better at it. I talked to some of the girls that lived through his assaults. They’re never going to be the same. Their worlds are shattered.”
Frank searched the reporter’s face. When she continued, she spoke so softly that Sally had to lean closer.
“When I questioned them, when I had to ask them about the man who’d done this to them, they trusted me. They looked at me like somehow I could help them be whole again. Which of course I can’t. But I told them, I promised them, that we’d catch him, that they’d never have to be afraid of him again. I intend to keep that promise. It’s the least I can do for them.”
Frank sat back, spent from the veracity of what had started as a line for Sally.
“So yeah, it’s not my problem anymore. But I can’t walk away from those girls, and whoever he’s got his sights on next. Because I can guarantee you, he will kill again. As sure as you’re taking your next breath.”
Sally coolly tapped a lacquered nail against her wine glass.
“Very touching. But if I break this, then every mike jockey in town will be hounding them.”
Frank needed Sally, she had to play this last hand as well as she could. Smiling patiently, and she hoped winningly, Frank coaxed the reporter.
“Come on, Sally. You’re light yea
rs ahead of most the crew out there. Do your homework. You can get an exclusive, and however you do that is fine with me. As long as we’ve never had this dinner, and as long as RHD moves.”
“If I call them on it I’ll need more ammunition.”
“Trust me. All you have to do is tell them you know they have a suspect in Culver City, and that they have solid evidence connecting him at least to Agoura. That’ll get them sweating. The commission won’t be pleased that they’re just squatting on a quadruple homicide. And besides,” Frank hinted, pulling out the last drop of charm in her arsenal, “this could be just the beginning of a useful relationship between us. Don’t you think?”
The hungry young reporter stabbed her ravioli and bared her teeth in answer.
33
“Kennedy hoisted a six-pack and said, “Congratulations.” Frank opened the door wider, letting her inside. “What am I being congratulated for?”
“You got your man.” Frank shrugged. “RHD’s man.”
“Oh-h-h,” Kennedy feigned, “and they didn’t have any help from you?”
The older cop returned the feint with a brief, enigmatic smile. “What’s up?” she asked, examining the three Cokes and three beers in the six-pack carton.
“Did you see the news tonight?”
“Nope.”
“It’s the lead story. Sally Eisley, KTLA? She had a total exclusive. She was marching in there behind these RHD dicks, filmed the whole thing.”